Unconditionally Mine Read online

  Sofia went back to bed. She crawled onto the wobbly air mattress in her brother’s spare bedroom—the very symbol of how much her life had changed. After she’d caught her fiancé sexting with some faceless girl, then finding out that the faceless girl was only one in many, she’d had to move out of their condo in Aventura and in with her older brother, Miguel, who was still in a post-divorce funk.

  Although months had passed, Sofia still had nausea when she thought about the night her life had fallen apart, which was often. She’d returned home after a late meeting with a client. The lights of their condo had been dimmed, bringing the sparkling water and city views into focus. The TV was on mute and a welcoming silence flowed through the rooms. She heard Franco moving around in the guest bathroom.

  Exhausted, she’d stepped out of her heels, waddled over to the couch and curled up with her favorite throw pillow. The TV remote was on the far side of the coffee table next to Franco’s keys, wallet and phone. She’d stared at the remote, willing it to fly into her hands. When Franco’s phone started buzzing and chiming, her eyes had been too dry from her failed attempt at mind control to focus on the nude pic that had popped up in a chain of text messages, small as a postage stamp. Nonetheless, she’d seen it.

  The bathroom door swung open. Franco came out, chuckling to himself and murmuring in that sexy way that used to make her hot. “Someone is impatient.” He came trotting into the living room, still dressed for work in a striped shirt and a pair of black trousers. She thought of a zillion things to say, but her jaw was clenched tight and the words jammed in her throat.

  Franco froze when he spotted her.

  The phone chimed again, this time with a text message consisting of several emojis, one of which was a peach. And say what you wanted about Franco, the former high school football star had impeccable reflexes. He leaped over an upholstered ottoman and snatched the phone off the table. Sofia, though, couldn’t move. She and Franco had been adrift for some time, and yet she had not seen this coming. She sat perfectly still while all the love she’d ever had for the man drained from her heart.

  * * *

  That night, Sofia had driven straight to Leila’s place. Nick had answered the door. “She’s at a yoga or meditation class or something.”

  Sofia checked the time on her phone. It was eight thirty. “You know what? I’ll just go.”

  She’d felt silly showing up like that. She should’ve stayed home and dealt with Franco like an adult. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since she’d staged her walkout. It rang then. She hit the ignore button and silenced the ringer.

  Nick gave her a quick once-over. “She won’t be long. Come in. I’ll open a bottle.”

  Nick was good, luring her in with the promise of treats. “No, I shouldn’t—” Her phone buzzed in her hand, provoking a jolt of anger. The next thing she knew she was screaming at the thing. “Stop calling me!”

  Nick’s blue eyes flashed. If he was judging her, though, there was no trace of it. He stepped aside and ushered her in. “What are you drinking? White or red?”

  “Tequila.”

  “You got it.”

  Nick called Leila while pouring from a bottle of Patrón. “Sofia is here...Ten minutes?...Don’t worry...I love you.”

  Sofia sat on a kitchen bar stool. “You guys still say ‘I love you’ on quick calls?”

  She’d known Nick long before he and Leila were a thing. Sofia had worked with him on various projects. But the moment Leila had joined his team, it was clear to everyone that they were head over heels in love. But everyone had expected the infatuation to die down, especially after Nick moved away to New York for a year. And yet, here they were, almost two years later, happier than ever before.

  Nick placed a glass before her. “We still do a lot of things.”

  She took a gulp. The tequila went down smooth, but still she choked on it.

  “Slow it down,” he said. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Franco and I...”

  Nick raised a hand. He didn’t seem interested in the salacious details. “Just tell me it’s over.”

  “It’s over.” Sofia took a breath. Saying it made it true.

  “Good,” Nick said.

  The two men knew each other. Nick used to stop by Franco’s car dealership to check out the inventory. Sofia had always suspected they didn’t like each other much. What Nick said next confirmed it. “Sofia, Franco is an idiot.”

  “No. I’m the idiot.”

  “Why blame yourself?” Nick asked.

  “Who else is there to blame?” she cried. “We were in trouble for months, for years, and I still forced him to propose.”

  “You can’t force a man to do anything,” Nick said. “Besides, Leila said you two were wrong for each other.”

  “She said that?” Sofia sat up straight.

  “Leila admires you,” Nick said quietly. “She had a feeling something wasn’t right, but trusted you knew what you were doing.”

  “Is that what you two do, cuddle up in bed and gossip about me?”

  Nick shook his head. “Not in bed, no.”

  Sofia frowned. She and Franco never gossiped. Even if she came home with a hot story, he didn’t indulge her.

  “Why did you want to marry him so badly?” Nick asked.

  Sofia hid her face with her hands and groaned. “We’d been together for so long. Since high school! It was the next logical step.”

  “Forget logic. It either feels good or it doesn’t.” Nick took her glass and poured the rest of her tequila down the kitchen sink. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “No clue. And you wasted some perfectly good booze.”

  “If you need a place to stay for a few days or weeks, you’re welcome to crash with us.”

  “I’m heartbroken, not homeless. But thanks.”

  Leila burst through the door. “Sofia! Why didn’t you text me, let me know you were stopping by? I would’ve skipped yoga.” She joined Nick behind the kitchen counter and planted a kiss on his shoulder.

  Nick and Leila made a ridiculously attractive couple. The brown-skinned beauty and the blue-eyed Canadian had had their share of problems, but they’d come out on the other side.

  “Are you up for dessert? I made rum cake.” Leila reached into the liquor cabinet and produced a brown bottle. “With this!”

  She held up the bottle of Barbancourt, Haitian rum. Sofia and Leila had roots on either side of the island of Hispaniola. Sofia’s dad was from the Dominican Republic and while growing up Sofia had visited frequently. Leila, however, had never been to Haiti. She tried to connect with her culture through food—although, not very successfully.

  “Not tonight,” Sofia said. “Thanks.”

  “Where’s the camera?” Leila asked Nick. “I want to show Sofia the new photos of the house.”

  “Maybe now isn’t the best time,” Nick said.

  Leila looked from Nick to Sofia. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong!” Sofia perked up. “Now is a great time. I’m up for it.”

  “You sure?” Nick asked.

  “Sure, I’m sure!”

  Sofia was as surprised by her sudden reversal as anyone. She’d come fully prepared to confide in Leila, but something Nick had said held her back.

  She admires you.

  That night, she avoided Nick’s questioning gaze, as she continued to do for weeks.

  * * *

  Shielding her loved ones from the grim reality also became a priority. The following Sunday, she joined her parents at home for dinner. Her mother had lost some weight, as her cardiologist had recommended, and her floral dress she’d worn to church that morning hung loose on her. A massive heart attack and open-heart surgery had revived her ailing Catholic faith. Anyway, her mother had better news to share.

  “Y
our dad and I want to do something special for our thirty-fifth anniversary. And we want you to organize it.”

  “Dad wants this?”

  The question came from Miguel. Sofia’s older brother entered the kitchen and stood before the open refrigerator as he’d done as a teen. It was inevitable. When they were home, they reverted to their most juvenile selves.

  Miguel grabbed a can of soda from the fridge. “Knowing dad, he’d rather celebrate with the three b’s—beer, Buffalo wings and baseball.”

  “He wants what I want,” Mom said.

  “Man! You’ve got it good,” Sofia teased.

  “It’s a big anniversary,” Mom said. She worked a knife through a block of queso blanco. “Plus, we’ve had a rough year.”

  Sofia relived it all. Those long nights in the hospital when they weren’t sure she’d pull through had left them all depleted. Her mother was more of herself now, back at work at the shop and cooking Sunday dinners as usual, but with markedly less stamina. That was what worried Sofia, seeing her diminished that way.

  Her mother looked up, wistful. “We need...something. You know?”

  “Absolutely,” Sofia said.

  Nothing was as cathartic as a good old-fashioned party with dinner, dancing and drinks—the whole shebang. It was what the family needed to turn the page.

  “Look at this.” Her mother handed over her phone, the browser open to a Pinterest page. Sofia reviewed pins of venues, flowers, table settings, themes and dresses. “I’m doing it right this time.”

  Her parents had eloped at the downtown courthouse. “Doing it right” would likely involve a priest.

  “Can you afford all this, Mom?” Sofia asked.

  Miguel dropped to the floor and held a plank position. “Can you afford Sofia?”

  Her mother returned her attention to the stove, stirring a pan of paella. “I don’t buy crazy expensive purses and shoes like some people do. I’ve had the same Coach bag for the last three years and my Camry is a decade old. So, yes, you two, I can afford this.”

  Sofia let the targeted criticism slide. Her parents worked hard and were financially sound. Her dad owned a construction company. Some years it had flourished, others it flailed. But since Miguel had joined the team, expanding operations and taking risks, business was good. Her mother ran a fabric shop downtown, and business had always been steady. Their house was paid off and their retirement secured, but they hadn’t traveled or taken a vacation in decades.

  “What’s your budget?” Sofia asked.

  “Five thousand dollars, and your services are free.”

  Five grand didn’t get you much these days, but her mother didn’t have to know that.

  “You brag about working magic for your clients. It’s time you do the same for your family.”

  “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said, mid push-up. “Work your magic.”

  “Just watch me,” Sofia said.

  She took out her own phone and pulled up her calendar. “Your anniversary is the first Wednesday in April. We should schedule the party on the Friday or Saturday.”

  “Saturday.”

  “That’s three months away. We’re going to have to hustle. I’ll need you to be decisive. No mulling over fabrics and flowers for days. Okay?”

  Sofia scrolled through Pinterest, pausing at a pin of a white-and-gold place setting. It was gaudy enough to satisfy her mother’s tastes while remaining tasteful.

  “I want you and Franco to say a few words at the reception—as a couple.”

  Sofia lowered the phone. “Why? Isn’t that Miguel’s job? He’s the oldest.”

  “I’m depressed and divorced.” Miguel hopped to his feet. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “You’re depressing,” Sofia said. “I know that much.”

  “Leave your brother alone, will you?” her mother scolded. “Not everyone is as lucky as you and Franco. Where’s Franco, anyway?”

  “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel said evenly. “Where is Franco, anyway?”

  She glared at him. “Busy. Work stuff.”

  At the mention of Franco’s name, Sofia’s mask had nearly cracked. Her parents would not take the news of the breakup well. They were traditional. A married life was a settled life, in their opinion. Her mother, in particular, had had a hard time with Miguel’s divorce and she hadn’t even liked his wife. Sofia knew how her mother’s mind worked. Her illness and Miguel’s misfortune were signs the family was vulnerable, brittle, falling apart. The end of Sofia’s engagement would make it clear. Even Miguel, who knew the whole story, and who’d appeared sympathetic when she’d shown up at his door with an overnight bag, didn’t seem to be taking it too well now.

  Sofia was sixteen when she and Franco met. Franco played ball with Miguel on weekends and could be counted on for Sunday dinner. As a result of their splitting up, the whole family would have to break up with him as well. That was going to be a tough sell.

  “Too bad,” her mother said. “He loves my paella.”

  Nobody loved her mother’s paella. Did it do the trick at the end of a long day? Sure. Did anyone wake up craving it? No. Was it technically paella? Not even close. Just some yellow rice with peas, peppers and cod tossed in—not necessarily heart healthy, either. Her mother wasn’t the fine Latina cook she thought herself to be. In fact, her mother wasn’t Latina at all. She was African American. At nineteen, Clarissa Ross fell in love with Antonio Silva, the smooth-talking Dominican boy who’d moved into the apartment down the hall from hers. Ten months later, she was pregnant. They got married and lived happily-ever-after. All that being said, her mofongo was off the charts and her chicken potpie was legendary.

  “You and Franco represent the future of our family,” her mother said. “Can I count on you two to say a few words? Nothing fancy.”

  “Yeah, Sofia,” Miguel chimed. “Nothing fancy. You and Franco can handle that.”

  What was Miguel’s problem? And what was she going to tell her mother? Their family had no future? She wasn’t that cruel.

  * * *

  That Sunday, after dinner with her family, Sofia sat in her car for a long time thinking about the future. Had she been too quick to toss out the past and Franco with it? She drove to Aventura, back to the home she’d abandoned, where most of her clothes, her comfy pants and her favorite pillow had been left behind. It was time she and Franco had a talk.

  He greeted her at the door, looking rumpled and contrite. They sat at the dining table. Franco rushed to apologize.

  “None of those women meant anything to me.”

  Women. Plural. Did he have to remind her that it wasn’t just one faceless girl, but legions?

  “I never met any of them in real life,” he continued. “It was all for play. Something to do when I was bored.”

  “So, I bored you.”

  “No,” Franco said. “That’s not what I meant. Damn it, Sofia. I wish there was a way for me to make it all up to you.”

  Sofia raised a hand to silence him. That silence stretched on forever. They sat at the table, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Sofia had promised herself that the breakup wouldn’t break her. But when finally she tried to speak, her voice buckled and failed. She took a breath and started again.

  “We’re family,” she said.

  Franco had been there for her the whole time her mother was in the hospital. He’d shown up early with coffee and returned after work. He’d brought her dinner, a change of clothes, whatever she needed. He ran errands for her dad. He’d been like...a brother.

  Franco exhaled with relief. “We are family.”

  “And if you ever need anything, call me.”

  She stood, ready to leave, but not before retrieving her favorite pillow and packing up her comfy pants.

  “That’s it?” Franco asked.

  Sofia walked over to the hallway closet
and pulled out a large suitcase. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t want things to end this way,” he said.

  She turned to face him. “Things are not going to end this way. We’re staying engaged for three more months, and then it’s officially over. That’s what I’ve come to tell you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Franco said.

  “My mom is expecting us to make a couple’s toast at her anniversary dinner in April, and we’re not going to let her down.”

  Sofia wheeled the suitcase into the bedroom, pausing on her way to look at Franco alone at the table.

  “Don’t look so confused,” she said. “You wanted a way to make it up to me. This is the way.”

  Chapter 6

  Because Jon had a smart mouth, growing up he got his ass kicked—a lot. Then one day, a cousin told him to bulk up or shut up. If some kids found camaraderie and guidance at a local Y, Jon found the same in a dank basement gym in New Jersey where he started lifting weights. At fourteen, when he left his mother to live with his father, an airman then stationed in Germany, he was taller than most kids and all lean muscle.

  A year later, his father transferred to the UK. There Jon followed some older kids to an off-base boxing club where he practiced sparring, mastered drills and generally kept out of trouble. The first time he entered a ring at sixteen, he was a mere featherweight. By the time he returned stateside to attend college at Syracuse, he’d gained muscle and weighed in as a middleweight. He’d won a few fights and earned a scholarship from an intercollegiate boxing association that put a dent in his tuition.

  Boxing had shaped his life in ways others couldn’t appreciate. His parents had mixed reactions to his newfound passion. His mother was repulsed by it. His father admired it. But they misunderstood it. Boxing hadn’t made him a fighter, as his mother feared. It had taught him restraint and self-control. Once word got out that he packed a mean punch, he didn’t get into random fights anymore. Kids stopped provoking him. And he could knock their lights out with one right hook, but why would he? It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing skill.