Chapter 12 - THE WOMAN WHO FOUND HERSELF AGAIN
By spring, I had moved into my own apartment.
Not Aleandro's penthouse.
Not Ryan's studio.
Mine.
A small one-bedroom near the hospital.
It had crooked kitchen cabinets.
A radiator that clanked.
And a window overlooking a narrow courtyard.
I loved it.
I bought yellow curtains.
A secondhand sofa.
A tiny dining table.
And a plant Maria insisted was impossible to kill.
Aleandro visited on Saturday evenings.
He brought groceries sometimes.
Flowers occasionally.
And once, an expensive espresso machine I made him return.
He looked offended.
“It's a gift.”
“It's worth more than my refrigerator.”
“That doesn't make it bad.”
I laughed.
“Elias—”
He raised an eyebrow.
I froze.
Then burst out laughing.
“Sorry. Long shift. I don't even know an Elias.”
Aleandro smiled.
“I was beginning to wonder.”
I shook my head.
“I'm exhausted.”
He approached.
“Then sit.”
I smiled.
“Only if you're making dinner.”
He looked toward the kitchen.
“That's a dangerous request.”
I laughed.
And for the first time in years, laughter came easily.
May you like
Not because my life was perfect.
But because it belonged to me.
