Page 116 of Reckless Love

“I don’t have a problem with you coming here. Come in.” Part of me has always searched Vanessa, looking for commonalities with Stephen. But there’s not much on the surface. She’s shorter, with light hair and eyes, where his features are darker. Where Stephen’s always been broodier, Vanessa brimmed with sunshine as a kid, but somewhere along the line, that spark was snuffed out. I lean back in my chair and wait to hear what she has to say.

She approaches my desk and then hovers, not sitting. I gesture to a chair, but she shakes her head. “I won’t stay long.” After a deep breath, she continues, “I needed to come here in person. To apologize. For what happened to you and Landon.”

“For us almost dying.”

“Yes, for that. There’s stuff I can’t say for legal reasons, but I needed you to know that I didn’t know you and Landon would be involved in any way.”

“But your friends wanted to kill my husband.”

“From what I knew, death wasn’t what they wanted. Obviously, with how things happened, I can’t be sure. I didn’t set out to kill him.” She takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I’m not going to cry if he dies.”

That makes two of us. Mine is probably the bigger sin.

“I’m sorrier than I can ever explain that you and Landon were caught up in that.”

“Who’s a villain and who’s a hero really depends on where you’re standing, doesn’t it? Did you come to ask if I’ll speak to Stephen? Ask him to reconsider?”

“No, no. I wouldn’t… I didn’t come with any expectations. Some things were said—”

“By you, about me.” Part of me still resents that she implied I was using Stephen. Maybe what we used to have wasn’t what we have now, but it wasn’t that, either. Even when we tried to pretend we didn’t mean anything to each other, we were terrible at it.

“And I was wrong. Mom and Dad say that Stephen’s never been happier, that you’re divorcing Raul. Stephen told me about Landon.” Her voice breaks.

“I’ll talk to Stephen. Maybe I can smooth things over,” I say, an unexpected ache rising for her and her family. She made bad choices, but god, who hasn’t?

“I hope,” Vanessa says, her voice thick with unshed tears, “that Stephen will forgive me one day. But it’s not your job to repair our relationship. It’s mine. It’s all me.”

“He loves you,” I say, “and if there’s one thing I know about Stephen’s love, it’s that he can forgive a lot when he loves someone. Maybe he just needs some time.”

“We’ve drifted apart. We became caretakers for our parents, not siblings. Not really. Being so far apart in age has never helped. He looked after me when I was younger, and then I think when he came back, he didn’t know what to do with me. And maybe I still needed to be looked after a little, but I was too busy looking after everyone else.”

It’s heartbreaking to hear how isolated she’s felt. The last time I was that untethered, I married a man I didn’t love, accepted a life that didn’t fit.

“This might be a good opportunity to think about what’ll make you happy.”

She lets out a little laugh that holds no humor. “Yeah,” she agrees, but it’s quick, flippant. “Maybe.”

My cell phone buzzes on my desk, and I see it’s the hospital in Boston. They call whenever there’s an update on Raul’s condition, and my pulse immediately speeds up. “I’m sorry,” I say to Vanessa. “I need to take this, and I’ll need some privacy.”

“Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it.” She leaves and draws my door closed behind her.

“Hello?” I say.

“This is Dr. Meegan Moffat from Boston Medical Center. May I please speak to Mrs. Santos?”

Inside, I cringe at the moniker, but it’s one the hospital has assumed for some reason. “Yes,” I say, “this is she.”

“We have some exciting news to report,” and there’s genuine joy in her voice, “your husband is awake, alert, and asking for you.”

I sink deeper into my chair. All the joy I’ve been existing on, like food for a famished soul, dries up. “He’s asking for me?”

“He is. I’m not sure if you’re in Boston or if you’re in Bellerive. I know it’s been a long wait.”

“I’m in Bellerive,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Does he seem like himself?”

“That’s hard for me to say,” Dr. Moffat admits. “He’s alert. Our scans are promising in terms of him making a substantial recovery. I suspect you’ll be the true judge of whether or not he seems like himself. That is, I’m sure, the nerve-wracking part. Will he still be the man you fell in love with?”

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. “I’ll be there as soon as I can arrange a flight.”