Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Right now, I am that bulldozer.
“My mother used to come here to hear Mass most Sundays of her life.”
I make my way to the baptismal font, which I am not sure has been used in this century. I walk around it, my footsteps echoing off the stone floors and walls. Ophelia watches me as I follow the stations of the cross marking the path Jesus took on his way to the top of the hill of Golgotha where he was crucified.
“In the end, I’d bring her up here when she wasn’t too weak, and Father Emiliano would say Mass just to her even as she drifted off when she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore.” I circle back to the front, touch the beads of a wooden rosary wrapped around the feet of the dying Jesus. “She believed and believed right up until the end. Not that it mattered. God had turned his back on her a long time ago. But she just kept on believing in the goodness of people. In truth and honesty and doing the right thing, the good thing, when she never got any of that back.”
When I turn to Ophelia, she hasn’t moved, but tears wet her cheeks. She loved my mother too. I know that.
I go to her, brush them away with my thumbs, because I’m not telling her this to gain any favor, any sympathy. I’m telling her because it’s what my mother would have expected from me. Truth. Doing the right thing. It’s how she lived her life, and to lie outright to Ophelia now, it goes against the memory of Esmerelda Cruz. Ophelia should know the truth, as much of it as I can tell, even though she has no choice in what will happen today.
“You should know something before we do this,” I say, and I hear the shift in my tone, the coolness in it.
She must feel it too because she wraps her arms around herself.
I reach into my pocket and take out that scrap of paper she had me sign. I hold it between us and watch how her eyes harden and narrow as she realizes what it is. She’d left it on the desk. I’d taken it before we’d come here. Maybe I intended to do the right thing all along. Who the fuck knows?
“This? This isn’t the way this is going to work.” I rip the paper in half before her eyes.
Her mouth drops open, gaze shifting from that scrap of paper up to me.
“This, you can have,” I say, holding out the part about letting her go once this is over. She snatches it. “But this?” I rip the other half again, the part that says I won’t touch her—because I will touch her, and we will consummate our union. “This marriage cannot be contested. This won’t work.”
She lunges for me. “You fucking bastard!”
I hold the piece of paper just out of reach and tear it again twice more before letting it slip from my fingers, the scraps landing at our feet.
“You can’t do that,” she says, looking down at the torn contract between us. “You promised!” She drops down to her knees to collect the scraps.
I watch her gather them up, then crouch down to take her arms and make her look at me because I’m going to give her something in exchange for what I just did. Something important.
“Love,” I say, my own heart racing, the word one I’m not sure I’ve ever used with anyone apart from my mother. It’s foreign-sounding and strange as it echoes off the walls of this place.
Ophelia is clearly confused. She shakes her head, and I can imagine her thinking she misheard me.
I straighten, pulling her to her feet. I don’t let her go because I think she’ll bolt if I do. Although there’s nowhere for her to go, I know Father Emiliano will not perform the ceremony if she is not willing. It was his one requirement.
“Last night, you asked me what I’d marry for,” I say, hearing the gruffness of my voice.
Her eyes search mine, confusion, and disbelief and, ultimately, distrust inside them. She’s never looked at me like this before, and I don’t like it.
“Love,” I repeat the word and it’s a little easier to say this time. Not so odd-sounding. Not so wrong. “I’d marry for love, Ophelia.”
Her cheeks flush. She shakes her head as if to clear it. “You’re a liar.”
That’s not what I expect, not after my confession, and this time, it’s me who is taken aback.
“Do you remember what I told you last night?” she asks, her eyes aflame. “I told you that I don’t love you. That I will never love you. What you’re doing now, saying that, it’s cruel. And I don’t believe you love me. You’re a liar. It has taken me far too long to see that truth. To see you truly are your father’s son.”