The whole incident made it to the papers beyond just Miami's. Jean Paul, whose real name turned out to be Peter Garcia, was booked on attempted murder and a slew of other charges that very likely would secure him behind bars for a long, long time. Or as Angela put it, if that didn't, then her following up with a lawsuit would.

This had unleashed the untamed beast within her. She now spoke in terms of f bombs and s bombs that were so unlike her previous self, that even I felt like clutching my pearls.

Miguel was supposed to keep his leg immobilized for a few weeks, which meant he couldn't do Crossfit. One evening, where he was in bed complaining that he was going to lose all his muscle tone, I decided to give him a thorough workout. Mindful of the injury, of course, but at the end he was still as exhausted as if he'd gone to the gym for an entire session of punishment.

I tried to keep it together at work, despite the fact that all of us were rattled. Our two owners decided to hire a therapist who could help us process through what we'd lived. It was nice, but at least for me the best therapy was work. That was my refuge for weeks after, just pouring my energy on the app, on the wedding dresses that I'd been booked for, and trying not to think about the conversation Miguel and I were going to have in a year.

"You lucky bitch," Ayrton told me once over the phone, while I multitasked working on Jessica's dress. "I better be your maid of honor."

"Sorry," I told him. "I'm going to have to divide that role between Vera, Poonam and Page."

"Outrageous!"

"But," I said with a smile. "I have a better plan for you. I'll tell you in a year."

I enjoyed the genuine outrage that came at me after that.

About a month later I received a call from Gregory Schmitt, half chiding me and half demanding that I drive up to see my father. I wasn't sure I wanted to, but Miguel gave me a single look that convinced me. It reminded me that life was short and my father's days were numbered. Visiting him meant extending a courtesy to him that he'd never given me. But it was true that in his own, strange way, he'd tried to make amends.

Schmitt confirmed as much when I walked into the hospice, saying, "Your father mentioned that he hadn't seen you in a while."

"Not a lie," was all I told him.

I was shocked at how much my father had wasted away since I last saw him. My heartstrings pulled in all the wrong ways, the kind that made my eyes water and my chin tremble. He was asleep when I walked in and I didn't want to disturb him. I sat on the chair by the window and looked at him, his sunken cheeks and the papery thin skin that covered them. At the wisps of white hair atop his head, and the way his bony hands clutched as his bed sheet.

Father grunted in his sleep. Of course he wouldn't do something as common as snoring. When he stirred and opened his eyes, he caught me smiling at the same time as tears trickled down my face.

He coughed once and said, "You've always been a crybaby."

Yep, that was still him.

I sighed and wiped my face with some tissue. "Should I ask how you're feeling?"

"No, that's a boring topic."

He coughed some more and I helped him get seated to drink some water. He needed help even for that much. It broke my heart to see him like this, even though I remembered him as the strongest, most authoritative man on earth.

As he settled back against the pillow he said, "I want to hear all about you."

I didn't question it. I told him everything about me from where we'd left off in my last visit. I told him about working at Tropicana and about the circumstances surrounding my promotion.

"Bah," he said, his voice sharp like a smack. "If you'd got shot you could've sued him and got rich."

I had to laugh at that.

"I don't think that's how it would've gone," I said.

He waved the comment away with a weak hand that he dropped on his lap.

"More importantly," he continued. "Tell me about that boy who saved your life. Was he the one who came with you the other time?"

My eyebrows went up. "Are you sure you'd rather not talk about my business plans?"

His head shook. "Business I know about. Relationships, I don't."

The way he looked at me was poignant, as if with this admission he could undo an entire life of neglect. A spark of resentment went off in me but I snuffed it. There was no point in arguing with someone in this state. If he'd been hearty and healthy, I probably wouldn't have argued with him either. There really was no point in defying Alphonse Holt II.

So I told him everything I could about Miguel, going as far back as boarding school but skipping over the more carnally fun times we'd had.

"And he has money, you said?" he asked.

"Father!"

Rather than appearing admonished, he smiled.

"You're doing well for yourself," he said and I didn't know if he referred to my work or to the boyfriend I'd got by miracle. "I have nothing to worry about."

"Did you ever?" I asked him, clarifying in case he played dumb. "Worry about me."

My father leaned back and stared off into the distance. "Not as much as I should have. I guess I'll carry that regret with me to the afterlife."

That was way too sad for me to bear. Years ago I would have wished for payback but this was far beyond any punishment he deserved. So I did something that surprised us both. I grabbed his hand and said, "You don't have to. I forgive you."

His eyes widened.

What came out of his mouth was, "Damn it, I was a fool to ever think you were like your mother."

As far as strange compliments were, that was one of the best ones I'd ever got.

I was uplifted by the visit with my father, even having gone as far as promising to see him again the following weekend. But that wasn't going to happen, because halfway through the drive back to Miami I got the call from the hospice that he'd passed in his sleep with a smile on his face.

Seven years ago while I cried because of him, I wouldn't have imagined that a day would come that I would cry for him. But the day came and I was desolate. I'd touched the sky for a day, thinking that at long last, I had it all. I had a parent who maybe, sort of cared about me, a boyfriend and friends who definitely did and I was working at a job I loved. And then Alphonse Holt II was no more.

Miguel helped me through the arrangements after that and he stood next to me—in crutches—as we buried the man who only learned how to love in his last days.

Even though his balance was precarious, Miguel spared a hand to hold mine. The sky was dark and the rain that had been threatening to fall finally collapsed all over the small attendance. I pulled open an umbrella and held it over our heads, but it was still pouring underneath it and those waterworks came from my eyes alone.

A figure shrouded in elegance showed up in the corner of my vision, an older woman watching as the casket was lowered into the dirt. Belatedly I realized it had been my mother. We'd made eye contact, but as soon as the burial was finished she left without a word.

Miguel and I sat on a bench at the cemetery, long after the ceremony was done and the rain was gone. It was under a thick tree that had kept all the water to itself and left the stone underneath mostly dry.

"Until death did them part," I said. "In a way."

"That's a sacred vow." Miguel placed his crutches against the bench, his healing leg stretched out before him. He grabbed my hand again and said, "I won't take it lightly."

I looked him in the eyes, the beautiful eyes that sent my heart aflutter every time and said, "Neither will I."

this chapter honestly wrecks me and it doesn't help that i wrote it while my own dad was dying of cancer. i'm happy to publish it at last, because a lot of my own feelings made it to the pages on this one and it's good to finally release them.

love is complicated but we have such a short life to share it with others. don't hesitate to do it. it hurts a lot more if life passes you by without choosing to love despite the fear