"Lola?"

His fingers brush softly against my cheek, feeling like knives as the world closes in around me. My breath catches when our eyes finally meet, and I see fear clouding those beautiful sage irises. I don't have a choice but to say it now. His mind is already filling in the blanks.

"I, um." The words leave my brain as quick as they come to me, and I'm left staring at him like a complete idiot.

"Just tell me," he urges in a whisper, reaching for my cheek once more. I wince at his touch, and he hesitantly lowers his hand.

I don't know what I'm waiting for. There's no getting out of this. Still, my heart won't relax enough for me to catch my breath and spit out the words calmly.

Just say it already!

Before I can talk myself out of it, I force it out. "I cheated on you."

For a painfully long moment, he doesn't react—just stares at me the same as he had been when my lips first parted. Then slowly I see it hit him; his eyebrows pulling together as his brain churns out explanation after explanation, none of which makes an ounce of sense to him.

"When?" he asks, appearing fully confused now. "With who?"

I stare at him instead of answering. I can't find my tongue.

His breathing picks up. "When, Lola?" he demands in a low voice.

"It was only—" The words choke off before they find their way out, because the answer is shocking even to me.

It happened so many times; every weekend since I got back from Minnesota until three weeks ago, when I inadvertently realized I'm madly in love with my fiance. I want to tell him it wasn't much, because these last three weeks have meant so much more to me than all that, but it would be the most blatant lie. Five weekends with Jazmin that I should have spent focused on Xavi, but I didn't know. Why didn't I know? Fuck, why didn't I figure it out sooner?

"Lola."

"I-I didn't know—"

"Didn't know what?" he demands, losing patience.

"Th-that you—that I could love you."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Lola?"

"I'm lesbian, Xavi!" I explode in exasperation. My hands curl into tight fists, my fingernails digging further into my skin the tighter I squeeze them, but I don't ease up. "Or, at least I was."

"You were lesbian?" he repeats incredulously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

God, I wish I knew.

"It means..." My eyes trail around the room desperately in search of a way out as I hover just outside my body; close enough to feel it all and far enough to feel numb at the same time. But it's just numb enough to feel like ripping the bandaid off as my gaze settles on Xavi again. "It means I thought you and I would never work, so I had sex with Jazmin in Tijuana. A lot. I'm sorry."

I manage to deliver it with such ease and nonchalance that Xavi doesn't even appear to comprehend the name for a whole minute as he gawks at me. Then that part finally clicks too, his eyes blinking rapidly as he turns to his sister. His shoulders rise and fall quickly with his mounting panic, and Jazmin's expression appears to match mine. We're both caught now.

She attempts to control the damage. "Xavi, escucha—"

"No," Xavi cuts her off, holding a hand up. His lips purse hard as he shakes his head. "I don't wanna hear it."

He shoots me one last glance—pained, betrayed, enraged, and all of it at once—then turns on his heel and leaves, slamming Jazmin's door so hard behind him that a picture frame falls over and topples to the floor, smashing into pieces. The young faces of Jazmin and her twin siblings Xavi and Ximena, something like ten years ago, look back at me harrowingly.

"Nice job," Jazmin says hoarsely after a moment.

My heart pounds painfully and anxiously as I look back at the door with a scowl meant to hold back my tears. It doesn't serve its purpose. They flow freely anyway, quietly staining my cheeks as a single sob escapes.

I said what I had to say, and now Xavi and Jazmin both thoroughly hate me. What's keeping me here?

My legs move in answer to the rhetorical question in my head, skipping over the glass on the floor as I yank the door open and zip out. I take the stairs two at a time to the foyer as my heart threatens to explode right out of my chest. It just might if I don't get out of here, and as my luck would have it, my mother is passing through the foyer at the same moment and we nearly collide.

"My, my, Lola," she giggles drunkenly. "Where are you off to so fast?" She pauses as her face gets serious and she leans in close. "Are those tears?"

I shake my head quickly as I wipe them. "No, Mom. I need to go."

"Go? Lola, I just got here," she counters in offense. "And don't you live here?"

Her tone irks me, and my mouth takes off before I can stop it. "Do you ever stop to think of anyone other than yourself?" I spit, turning my body to face her fully and stepping toward her. "Seriously, none of this is about you. None of it. Not my baby, not my wedding, none of it!"

Her eyes tighten, appearing notably more sober than just a moment ago. "What are you on about, Lola?"

"Why do you care about my wedding so much, Mom? That's what I'm on about."

She's taken aback by the question, but attempts to answer it, anyway. "I care because... well, because you're my daughter," she explains matter-of-factly, laughing once.

"You said I wasn't your daughter when I... when I—" I choke up remembering it and pause to breathe.

"When you were confused, Lola, yes," my mom continues in my stead.

Right. Even now, she can't respect me as a human.

"I wasn't confused back then," I disagree swiftly. "But now? Now I... Well, I've never been more confused in my God damn life."

She clicks her tongue and rubs my shoulder, crooning, "Oh, sweetie."

I blink in confusion a few times as the word echos around my skull. She's never called me that in my life. I've always just been "Lola," or a few times, "bitch." I wanted her to call me anything else so many times, but she never wanted that kind of closeness with me. That tequila's really affecting her.

"Why now?" I inquire, despite all my better instincts. She squints questioningly, so I continue. "Why are you so supportive now? Why not before?"

I already know the answer, but there's a big difference between assuming the truth and really knowing the truth. I need to hear her say it, so I know for sure.

She snickers pitifully. "I had nothing to support before. Just a very, very confused daughter. Your father thought the same."

Her own lack of support, I was expecting. For her to bring my dead father into this...

"Don't talk about Dad," I order her through gritted teeth. "Ever. Again."

Her eyebrows pull together in a self-righteous scowl. "I was married to your father for a long time, and I know what his hopes were for you. This is exactly what he wanted, Lola."

His hopes... for me...

It twists up my insides in an inexplicably painful way to hear those words. How I would have loved to hear his hopes for me directly from his mouth. Anything to know he cared. My throat aches with the desire to sob until I lose my voice permanently, and my eyes sting from the tears I can't hold back anymore.

"I have to go," I say one last time as I pivot for the door, hoping it's quick enough that she can't see me cry. One thing still rings true in our relationship after all these years: I can't let her see me cry. She hates it when I cry.

"Lola!" she calls after me in irritation. "We're not done talking about your wedding!"

I freeze in the doorway and face her with a fierce expression, tears running freely now. "We are done talking about it because it's not fucking happening!"

She's flabbergasted, stuck between chastising me for cussing and calling after me for running away, and the words get jumbled up in her mouth only to come out nonsensically. I'm gone before she can figure it out.

I speed-walk down the driveway, huffing as I go while tears continue to streak my cheeks. I haven't cried like this for my dad since the night I found out he passed—I didn't even cry at his funeral. The numbness took over so fast, and then there was... whatever the hell led me to sleeping with Xavi again. Ever since then, I've been all over the place. Is this all just pent-up grief?

I don't know, but whatever it is, I really wish it would quit pushing me into the world's stupidest decisions. Like, for instance, walking three hours and fifty minutes from Chris's Beverly Hills house to my apartment in Los Angeles while I'm sixteen weeks pregnant and shaking with the panic attack that probably won't stop for the next week. I'm lucky to still have that apartment—thanks to my inability to trust anyone or anything one hundred percent—which eases my anxiety a bit, but not enough to stop the trembles.

My legs are already screaming about the walk by the time I make it to the end of the driveway, but I can't go back. Everyone surely knows the engagement is off now, if not because of Xavi and Jazmin, then because of me. Apparently, I inherited my mom's blabbermouth.

Right in the foyer? What the hell was I thinking with that?

"Lola!" Chris yells out from behind me.

I whip around quickly and see him driving up in the Escalade. Now that I notice it, I can hear the tires of the vehicle that was sneaking up on me. Chris slips out of the driver's seat in a hurry and rushes over, making my chest heavy with guilt for always worrying him.

I'm not your problem, I want to tell him. Just let me screw up alone.

But all I can ever manage is to watch him approach me with my eyes all big and doe-y, then hang onto every word he tells me. This time will be no different, and I feel so much more pathetic than I already was to acknowledge it.

"Lola, where are you going?" he asks breathlessly and urgently as he reaches me.

"Home," I answer quietly with a shrug. There's another breakdown creeping up on me, and I swallow hard as I scowl at the ground to fight it back.

"This is your home, Lola," Chris reminds me gently. "Whatever's going on with Xavi doesn't change that. We have extra rooms."

I shake my head slowly. "I can't go back there, Chris. I can't."

"You can," he insists gently.

"I can't." My voice breaks and my arms slide around my ribs as sobs wrench free again. I repeat the words under my breath as I sob, lowering my gaze so I don't have to look Chris in the eyes.

He allows me to cry like that for maybe ten seconds, and then his arms are around me, pulling me into the kind of tight, fatherly hug I've lacked my entire life. My sobs keep flowing shamelessly into his shoulder, and slowly, I free my ribs and reach for him, holding him tight as I cry.

"I mean it, Lola," he says softly after a moment. "You don't have to leave."

I inhale sharply and pull away, feeling that guilt re-surge in my gut at his words. I do have to leave. Xavi and Jazmin will never want to see me again, Rigo's only goal is to torment me, and frankly, I can't stand the way I feel being in this house anymore. I've never felt so out-of-place in my life. This isn't my life, my home, or my family. Leaving is the only option that makes sense.

"I need to, Chris," I disagree quietly as I wipe the last of my tears. "I want to go home and be alone."

He looks at me hard, urging me to change my mind with his eyes. If I was any less destroyed mentally, it would probably work. His celebrity charm is losing its effect on me, though. Everything is losing its effect. The world is losing color more and more each day, and I don't want to be around Chris or the Reyes family when it's finally all gone.

"Let me drive you, at least," he concedes after a moment.

As tempting as it is to fall victim to my pride again and try to walk home, I nod wordlessly and follow him to the Escalade. The ride is long and quiet as he leaves me to that privacy I stupidly claimed to want. My foot taps along to the beat of the soft music to distract myself from another breakdown in the passenger seat.

"I'm sorry about your mom, by the way," he adds when we're nearly at my apartment.

"Sorry?" I repeat, feigning ignorance without looking at him as a confirmation that I'm lying. "For what?"

"For Rigo inviting her." I peek over at him then, and he's chewing his bottom lip nervously. "I didn't know about it until she showed up. He's got a bad habit of taking personal vendettas too far. I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," I reply easily, shrugging. "I won't get in his way anymore."

Chris's shoulders sink. "Please don't shut everyone out."

I stare out the windshield in silence for a moment before answering. "It's just better that way, Chris. All I do is mess things up."

The Escalade slows to a stop in front of my apartment, and Chris throws it in park before facing me with a stern expression. "You're not shutting everyone out, like it or not. I'm gonna call you tomorrow and if you don't answer, I'm coming over. Understood?"

"Chris," I protest with wide eyes.

"That's the deal," he declares with finality. "If you don't agree, I'm not leaving you here alone."

I exhale in a huff and cross my arms. "Fine. Agreed. Can I go?"

He nods, but I can tell he doesn't want to. "Be safe, Lola."

A lump instantly forms in my throat, aching as another round of tears threaten to escape my eyes. I'd rather die than face Chris Ellington while I cry again, so I yank open my door and book it into the building without another word or glance backward. I feel bad about that too, because I know he's worried, but I can't deal with the way his concern weighs on my conscience.

My phone buzzes as soon as I get up to my apartment, and I yank it out of my back pocket, eagerly hoping it might be Xavi. Even though he's angry, a text is a text. I want to hear from him so badly; just to know he doesn't hate me completely.

But it's not him. It's my mom, calling me.

I'm not even sure why, but I answer it. "Hello?"

"Lola," she says urgently, "do you still have your engagement ring?"

I scowl, although she can't see it. "Yeah. What does that matter?"

"Oh!" she chirps in relief. "Good! Then there's still a chance of fixing things with Xavi."

My chest tightens. "There's no chance of fixing things with Xavi," I counter flatly. "Ever."

She lets out a frustrated sound, as if my broken engagement could possibly be worse for her than for me. "Well, don't you see? This is what happens when you attempt to defy God. He will get you back for it one day!"

"Get me back for it?" I repeat with a skeptical laugh. "What, is He a petty high schooler now?"

"Excuse you?" Her tone is serious, just like when I was a child and her patience wore thin. My heart races in response.

"You heard me, Mom," I fire back daringly. "You're seriously implying that I deserve this for being lesbian?"

"Implying? Oh no, Lola. Let me be much clearer than that: this is a punishment from God for wasting so much of your life on the wrong path," she explains audaciously. "This is a punishment for being lesbian."

I know it's just the tequila making her talk to me like this—or at least I hope it is—but it still stings. My jaw tenses repeatedly as I debate what to do, but the anger keeps rising. I can't be nice.

So instead, I hang up on her. I turn off the phone too, for extra measure. As far as I'm concerned, it can stay off. Sorry, Chris.