Love Turns With Twisted Fates (Truth About Love Book 2) Read online

  “Mazzy.”

  “She doesn’t know what I mean,” she waves away my concern with her hand. “Just putting it out there for her to find the perfect time to make her presence known.” She framed perfect with air quotes.

  I let out a gleeful laugh. “You two are incorrigible. I’ll have to share the order you gave her,” referring to the baby as Mazzy did, “with Diego. He’s gonna love it.”

  She directs her attention back to my belly. “Now, peanut be good and I’ll be back before you’re born. Take care of your mommy, she’s the bestest. You’ll see. And peanut, auntie loves you so much, so much.”

  What was once a lone tear leaking from my eye is now a flood of tears streaking my face. “Oh, Frizzy. Don’t you cry or I’m gonna cry,” she teases.

  I smudge the tears away with my sleeves much like a child would. She pulls me in for a hug and we just stay there. “Mazzy,” I speak into her shoulder through sobs, “how am I going to do this with you thousands of miles and an ocean between us?”

  She scoffs. “You do remember who your husband is, right? I hardly think you’ll need the both of us hovering.” She quirks an eyebrow up at me. Ever since she went to my last doctor’s appointment with me, she’s been almost as bad as Diego with the over-cautiousness and over-protectiveness. It’s quite ridiculous. The doc just said I need to be good about taking my supplements, drinking water, and getting rest. Even with the added iron supplement, my levels are within range, but on the low side.

  She releases me from our hug and levels a pointed stare at me. I feel like a kid again, because my natural reaction is to roll my eyes.

  “I still don’t see why I can’t go to the airport with you.” Yup, that’s a pout on my face. Diego insisted, and Mazzy agreed, that I didn’t need to be traipsing through a crowded airport. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “And we’re going to keep it that way,” she delivers with a stern smile.

  “Fine, go,” I turn to give her my back, my arms crossed over my chest. Before I can settle into my forced tantrum, I’m shaking with a laugh that gives me away. She grabs me from behind and whips out her digital camera. Strategically placing it in front of our faces, she clicks off a photo. She turns it around and opens up the image on the small viewscreen on the back of the camera.

  We both are cracking up. She’s managed to only capture our foreheads and our eyes. She whips it around again and takes a little more time to angle it to get our faces in the pic. When she’s done, she repeats the action of pulling the new image up on the viewscreen.

  “Better,” she declares. “Now, keep that smile on your face, because before you know it, I’ll be back,” I crack up because with those last three words she tries out her best Terminator voice and fails miserably.

  Albert comes in and informs us that Mazzy’s bags are in the car. “Love you so much, so much, Izzy.” She gives me another hug.

  “Love you so much, so much, Mazz.” I squeeze her back.

  I do as she says and keep the smile on my face as she pulls away from the curb, waving at me from the rolled down window.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing

  September 2006

  Since the day before Mazzy left, Diego has become busier than normal. It’s been nearly ten days and it feels, more often than not, like we are two ships passing in the night. The day before his birthday, I send him a message.

  Hey lover. I miss you.

  Hey Iz miss you

  I can’t shake the feeling that he’s being unusually short with me.

  Can’t wait for tomorrow night.

  Referring to his birthday and the special night I have planned.

  About that

  My stomach drops. I just stare at the last two words he sent me. I can’t imagine what must be going on.

  We’ve always made birthdays special. A tradition both our mothers emphasized more than any other holiday or celebration. While he heard of stories of his mom sharing birthdays with her siblings back in Mexico, Diego’s mom made a point of celebrating just him. Our mothers had similar sayings about our birthdays. His mom would say, “El día que me hiciste una madre es digno de celebración hasta el fin de los tiempos.” The day you made me a mother is worth celebrating until the end of time. My mother would say to me, “The day you were born you made us a family. And this family is worth celebrating.”

  Izzy?

  His message breaks my trance. With a sigh, I message him back.

  Yup.

  Whats going on.

  Nothing. Just waiting for you to tell me “about that.”

  The nice thing about texting? He can’t hear the frustration and sarcasm in my statement or see the accompanying eye roll.

  We need 2 take new team photos Sasha scheduled it for tomorrow afternoon can we push dinner back by an hour i just want 2 make sure im not late

  Relief washes over me at the celebration just being bumped back while ice runs through my veins at the mention of her name. If it’s not one thing, it’s another with her. And for whatever reason, Diego is asking how high when she says jump.

  That’s fine, D.

  Thx bella ill c u soon k

  Okay

  I wait for his typical way of signing off or saying goodbye and it never comes. I know it’s the added hormones from the pregnancy, but this unusual lack of his sentiment has my eyes leaking. I chastise myself, but the tears don’t stop.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Not What It Seems

  September 2006

  It’s fifteen minutes until our dinner reservations for his birthday and Diego isn’t home. I’ve messaged him several times with no reply. When I messaged Ken, he said he hadn’t heard from him since he dropped him off at the stadium earlier in the afternoon. Watching the minutes tick off on my phone is worse than getting a bikini wax where they pull off the cloth strips slowly.

  Ken agreed to message me the moment he heard from Diego to come get him. I know he stays nearby the stadium. “To be safe,” as he put it. But I still had this sinking feeling in my stomach. Something was off. This is unlike my Diego. He would never let it get this late and not message or call.

  I’m out of my mind curled up on the couch with my knees tucked to my chin when Diego rushes through the front door. I’m baffled and out of sorts. Why didn’t Ken message me? I just stare at Diego my eyes wild and wide. I’m sure the mascara and eyeliner streaking down my cheeks makes the sight of me even more horrifying. He just stands there and stares.

  “IZZY,” Diego shouts, “why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  And that snaps me out of my stupor. Instantly, I’m brought back to reality and he’s just stirred up a fury of epic proportions. With a shake of my head to clear the last of the cobwebs and steeling my nerves, I realize I must have cried myself to sleep. “What time is it?” I ask calmly through gritted teeth.

  Diego looks like he’s fuming waiting for my answer to his question. The answer he’s not going to get. So, I find my phone on the floor next to where I lay on the couch. It’s ninety minutes after our reservations.

  Straightening myself up, I walk past him headed to our room upstairs. This night was clearly over before it started. I have so much to say, but I suddenly lack the heart to say it.

  “IZABELLA,” he roars from the foot of the stairs below me. I refuse to look at him. How dare he be fucking mad at me?

  I’m in our room when he catches up to me and grabs my elbow from behind. I stop, stock still in the middle of our room. “You have two choices,” I tell him. “We have this out on your birthday or you take your hand off my elbow and we wait until tomorrow to do it.”

  I pause, but he doesn’t answer.

  “Either way,” I continue, “I won’t be staying this fucking calm.”

  “Excuse me,” he says acting like I’m the one being undeservedly pissed off. “Izzy, why didn’t you answer your phone? When I call you need to answer!” there’s misplaced anger in his voice and it set
s me off.

  With a tug of my elbow, I walk to the windows of our room. Whirling around I walk right back up to him and get in his face. “NO! You don’t get to be pissed off,” I jab a finger in his chest and he has the audacity to look shocked. “Where were you, Diego? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Do you remember we had plans to celebrate? Do you know that it’s not just minutes passed the time you were supposed to be home?” My voice switches to a roar, “IT’S FUCKING HOURS!!!”

  “Izabella,” clearly he’s still mad at me if he’s using my full name, “I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about. There’s not a single missed call or message on this fucking phone from you. So, what? You thought you’d get back at me by not answering your phone?” he hisses and roughly hands me his phone.

  I’m not above checking, but I know he could have just as easily deleted them. So, I open my phone to the messages I sent him and hold it up for him to see. And to my shock, I see confusion flood his features. His shoulders drop.

  “I forgot my phone in the conference room used for part of the photo shoot. I didn’t find it until an assistant brought to me right before I left.” He’s rambling. “Ken said you couldn’t get them to switch the reservation for us. That the new reservation was for tomorrow night.”

  No fucking way. For a moment, I believed him. But lying about talking to Ken when I know full well that Ken hasn’t spoken to him sets me off. The subsiding rage rushes out with my next rant. “Oh fucking really. You talked to Ken?” the dare to lie to me obvious.

  “Well, no, but one of the receptionists brought me a message.”

  Still not buying this convenient bullshit I press further, “And Ken didn’t tell you I tried him a million times when he picked you up?”

  There’s a flush on his cheeks and he’s noticeably—embarrassed? “One of the guys just got a Ferrari. He offered to give me a lift home. When we left, he tossed me the keys and we went for a drive up the motorway. It took a little longer than expected.”

  I feel my shoulders slump, my mind trails off recalling a time when things were similar: missed calls, unanswered messages, his absence.

  “Izzy,” I hear my name, but I’m lost in that moment.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Chick Habit

  April 1999

  After two months of dating, Diego slips with the “L” word. We both pretended it didn’t happen and it was about three weeks later, I admitted to him that I had fallen in love, that the earth moves when I’m with him and I love the high he brings me. We were on that high together for about four more months.

  Last week, I noticed that something was different. I began to notice that there was a distance between us. We’d both gotten busy in our school and extracurricular activities, but it never slowed us down even when things were at their busiest.

  But here we are, not together. Diego insisted that he loved me, but he was getting “claustrophobic.” I frame the bitter word with air quotes in my mind and a disgusted look on my face.

  It’s my twenty-third birthday and although we were no longer together, he promised to be there for it. We weren’t calling it quits, more like a timeout. I’ve tried calling him all night without being excessive. I feel like I have some leeway here considering the circumstances. I finally give up and turn off my phone, deciding if he calls back, it serves him right to not have me answer. Fuck his apology.

  I spend the rest of the night brooding behind my plastered on fake smile. I’m pretty good at masking when I want to be. The sinister in my smile is invisible to those that have never seen my wicked side. I’m plotting out each word of my rant, carefully stringing together my insults in my head while faking a chuckle at Ashley’s mention of Professor Stephen Les Paul’s “fine ass.”

  When the time came, when it was socially acceptable to bail on my own party, I said my goodbyes in record-breaking time. Mazz makes a point of walking me out. “What’s up, Izzy?”

  “Got something I gotta say to someone,” saving my spite and venom for Diego.

  “You need me to roll through?”

  I chuckle a little. I love it when she goes ghetto on me, but I just shake my head. “I got this.”

  The drive to Diego’s building is just the proper length of time to fuel the burning fire in my gut. The anger raging within me is incalzando, the fury getting faster, my inner rant getting louder.

  I find that I have to talk myself down some as I reach the door to his building. I take measured steps, skipping the elevator to take the time climbing the stairs will provide. Reaching his room, I pick up female voices coming from behind the door.

  The fury races from my hand as I opt to use the key he gave me even though I know I’m not going to like what I see. The steeled calm I was able to gain from the climb up the stairs has evaporated along with the words I’d been plotting all night.

  I throw open the door. “WHAT THE FU—” The last word dies on his tongue. Beneath him, I can see the group he’s entertaining, a blonde and a brunette and their naked bodies. And by the look of it, I’d say that the phone call back and owed apology I was expecting never even crossed his mind.

  While I stood there dumbfounded, Diego’s attempt to hide the scene behind him by stepping out and pulling the door closed plucks me from my stupor. “Hey, Diego,” I say barely above a whisper, “go fuck yourself,” I finish, turning to leave.

  “Izzy, bella,” I can hear the plea in his voice, I feel his hand reach for mine, but he doesn’t latch on.

  “Don’t bother, Santo Feo,” I hiss his on field nickname. “Clearly, we have different ideas of ‘working it out’ and unless you want this floor and the ones above and below to hear our business, you’ll let me leave,” I warn.

  I don’t look back, but I know that his image is everything to him. From the creak in the door, I know his bed buddies are an audience behind us and so must he. I leave, retracing my path back down the stairs out the building and to my car.

  “Hey,” I greet Mazzy when she picks up her phone. “You still at the bar?” I ask.

  “Izzy,” her voice is concerned. She must hear the trembling in mine.

  “I’ll explain everything when I see you. You still there?” I ask again.

  I hear the hesitation in her voice, but she confirms they are. “Have the shots lined up. I’m leaving Betsy in the dorm parking lot. We’re cabbing it home tonight.”

  I hang up before she can press the issue. I need this time to myself to catalog what happened and berate myself for allowing myself to believe that not all love is heartbreak.

  The shift of gravel in the distance behind me raises the hairs on my arms, a chill races up my spine. Diego. Even angry my body betrays me when he’s near.

  “Izzy,” I hear him speak softly.

  I refuse to answer. I will not make this night, my night, worse than it already is. I keep my back pressed up against the side of my car, not granting him the attention he’s seeking.

  A sigh of relief passes my lips as the cab I called pulls into the aisle of cars I’m waiting in. Needing to make my leave hastier, I push off the car and walk to meet the cab halfway.

  I’m pretty sure he said my name again, but I just get in and inform the cab driver of my destination. I can’t help the lone tear streaking down my face as we drive past Diego. Our gazes connect, but the sob that rips from my chest shifts mine from his.

  By the time the cabbie has me at the curb outside the bar, I’ve touched up my face and readied my expression. Most will not notice the facade, but Mazzy will.

  Thanking the cabbie, I hand him his money with a sizable tip. Holding up a hundred, I propose a deal, “If you’re back here for my roommate and me at closing, this,” waving the bill pinched between my pointer and middle fingers, “is yours plus whatever the cab ride home costs us.”

  He eagerly nods and promises to be right outside at closing.

  Once inside, I locate Mazzy and our group of friends near the stage. Our friend Alesha is up on stage belting her r
endition of “Me and Bobby McGee” made popular by thee Janis Joplin. I stop at the bar between them and me, ordering myself a chilled double shot of Patron Silver. The slivers of ice chasing the burn the tequila normally brings.

  Some random guy at the bar stops me from leaving. I think he offered to buy me another shot. It’s not his fault I’ve had a shit night and smooth talkers are the furthest thing from my want list. I look him once over like he’s a piece of merchandise I’m deciding if I want to buy. When my gaze comes back up to meet his eyes, I tell him with shake of my head, “Not drunk enough yet.”

  I walk away. His slur in response falls on deaf ears where I’m concerned. Amused patrons that overheard hide their laughs behind their cocktail glasses and beer bottles.

  The shot I just took warms my belly and in conjunction with my verbal jab, spreads a smile across my face. I don’t know if it’s more shit eating or full of pride by the expression on Mazzy’s face.

  “What’d you do?” she asks suspiciously.

  The waitress is at our table before I can answer Mazzy. She’s placing two double shots of what appears to be chilled Patron Silver on our table and hands me a napkin.

  I look at the message scribbled on the napkin.

  How drunk do you need to be?

  I look at the waitress who appears to be waiting for the question in my eyes. She points toward the end of the bar where a group of man meat is staring in my direction. The one I presume that bought me the drinks raises his glass.

  Mazzy must’ve read the note on the napkin and duplicated my process of locating the group and the man behind the shots. “Fuck me,” she drawls.

  The man is a suit, although his tie is loosened and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. His dirty blond hair is slightly mussed, probably from running those ridiculously large hands through it. His smile is boy-next-door with an underlining of wicked. His eyes glint even in the dim light of the bar with appreciation as we each unabashedly continue our inspections of the other.

  I grab one of the shot glasses, raise it in a return gesture, and then toss it back.