Page 135 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
The phrase lingered more than it should have.
I exhaled slowly, still not fully convinced I understood what this arrangement between us was becoming.
Then he pulled away.
“Have a good rest, Loretta,” he murmured, his footsteps moving away.
The door opened.
Then closed.
I exhaled shakily.
I lay down on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath my weight as I drew the heavy duvet over myself.
My throat tightened slightly as Rafael’s words kept echoing in my head.
I can help you heal.
We could eat together. Breakfast. Every morning. Like a couple.
Like a couple?
A real couple shared more than a table. They shared trust. History. Affection. They chose each other every day.
What Rafael and I had was none of those things.
The distance between us was too vast to cross.
It stretched through class and circumstance, through years of pain and bloodshed, through a history neither of us could escape.
I carried the surname of the man who had destroyed pieces of him that could never be restored.
Perhaps he felt compassion for me. Perhaps he even felt responsible for me.
But forgiveness?
No.
I could not imagine a world where Rafael Pérez truly forgave what my father had done to him.
One day, when his guilt faded or his sense of obligation finally ran out, he would send me away.
It was the inevitable ending to a story that had never been meant to begin in the first place.
I exhaled slowly, rolling slightly onto my side.
I hated how easily his words refused to fade like they were supposed to.
I closed my eyes.
Or what remained of them.
And for the first time in weeks, my mind didn’t spiral into chaos or memory or fear.
It softened.
I didn’t notice the exact moment sleep claimed me—only that the ache in my body, the weight in my chest, and the endless noise in my head slowly dissolved into darkness.
