He spent the rest of the night in his studio blasting the back wall with spray paint.
Grace cried all the way to North Hollywood. She managed to dry her tears before she reached Shanice’s Magnolia Boulevard condo. Shanice came out the front door of the complex and embraced Grace on the walkway. “Oh, honey, you’re shaking.” She grabbed Grace’s canvas suitcase. “We’ll talk inside.”
A warm breeze whipped palm branches overhead as Grace went up the stone steps and into the white plaster building with a red-tiled roof. An elevator took them to the third floor. Shanice quickly unlocked the door and let Grace in. Sinking onto the couch, Grace pulled several tissues from a box on the coffee table. She was already having second thoughts about leaving the cottage. What if she went back tonight? Would Roman knock on her door and apologize? What if he did? Would that change anything? Oh, God, why did You put me there if it was going to end like this?
Shanice put the suitcase down and sat with her. “What happened?”
Facing the truth, Grace started to cry again. “He wants a friend with benefits.”
“Did you—？”
“No! We only kissed, but . . .” She looked at Shanice.
“Oh.”
Grace blew her nose. “He made dinner, a really nice dinner, and set up the table on the patio. He chilled sparkling cider. He even had candles.”
Shanice gave a soft laugh. “Well, that dirty dog.”
Grace hiccuped. “It’s not funny.”
“Oh, honey, I know. Anyone with half a brain can see you’re in love with the guy. I thought maybe he felt the same way, but never mind. Roman Velasco looks like the whole package—good-looking, rich, single. But he’s damaged goods.”
“So am I.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Grace yanked out two more tissues. “I love him, Shanice. And now, I have to quit my job. I can’t live in his cottage. I have to move. I can’t see him again. If I do, I’ll give in, just like I always do.” She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. “I should’ve run the day I met him. I thought I was immune. I thought I’d learned my lesson about men. And then I move in right next door!”
“We all thought God put you there.” Shanice took her hand. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“This time. He makes my knees weak.”
“You had the good sense to get out of there.”
“Yes, but what am I going to do now? Go back and live with the Garcias? Selah wants Samuel. She’s pushing hard to keep him, and I can’t let that happen. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll be unemployed again. I don’t have a place to live. I don’t want to give up my son.” Grace sobbed. “I can’t bear it.”
Shanice put her arm around Grace. “You don’t have to give him up. You can stay here.”
“What about your roommate?”
“She moved out a few days ago.”
“But I should just let the Garcias keep him! I’m such a mess. Samuel deserves a good, full-time mother, and Selah loves him so much. Samuel should have a father, and Ruben is a good one.”
“Stop punishing yourself, Grace. You made one mistake. You need to think this through rationally. You’ve been beating yourself up since—”
“I just want to do what’s best for my son.”
“Listen to me. What’s best for Samuel is to be with his real mother full-time.” Shanice squeezed Grace’s hand and stood. “I’m going to fix some chamomile tea.” She went into the adjoining kitchen. “You’re staying with me until we sort things out. As for Selah, that woman is putting you through hell. You can pick up Samuel tomorrow and bring him back here. You’re his mother, Grace.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll muster the troops. Ashley and Nicole and you and I will all put our heads together and come up with some options.”
Grace felt steadier until her phone pinged with a text message—the second one Roman had sent—and her heart began racing again. Shanice looked over her shoulder, but didn’t say anything. Afraid she’d weaken, Grace deleted both texts. Her phone was almost dead, and she’d forgotten to pack the charger. A quivery warmth spread at the thought of going back, a telltale understanding of what would happen if she did. She turned off her phone and threw it in her purse.
Roman didn’t sleep all night. He’d gotten up periodically and gone to the studio to see if Grace had come home. The lights stayed off in the cottage. Her car wasn’t in the garage the next morning. He drank all six bottles of Heineken and half the bottle of champagne, hoping he could drown the hot lump of pain in his throat. He passed out on the couch and dreamed of the Tenderloin. Hey, Bobby Ray. Did you think you’d be any better as Roman Velasco? You’re still the same bastard son of a ghetto prostitute, not even a father’s name on your birth certificate. Stick with your own kind. The Tenderloin morphed into hell, with monsters wandering the streets and climbing the walls he’d blasted with cans of Krylon. Welcome home, Bobby Ray. Mocking laughter surrounded him, jeering grins and grotesque faces. Welcome back.