Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)(47)

“Did you mean that thing you said earlier today?” I ask.

“What thing?” He grins at me, so I know he remembers.

“The thing about loving me.”

He runs his soft fingertips against my inner thigh. “Yes, I meant it.”

“How do you know?” I wring my hands together.

“Because I think about you all the time. I want to be with you all the time. I can’t breathe when I think about you sometimes, and I don’t know how to tell you how I feel.”

“That’s pretty good.” I sniff back a tear.

“I know you don’t love me back,” he says. “Not yet, anyway. But I can wait for you.”

I stop his hands from moving. “I do love you. Why do you think I kept your baseball cap? I was intrigued. Then I was enthralled. Then I was beholden when you learned about my scars and you didn’t care. Then I was in love with you.”

“When did you know?”

“When you kissed all the scars on my stomach, when we were on my couch. I knew then that you were special. And then when you put the kite tattoo on me, I knew that you knew me. And I knew I wanted to know you. I want to know everything.”

“I asked your dad if I could marry you one day.”

I jerk to attention. “What did he say?”

“He said when I’m ready to formally ask, to bring him cigars.”

I laugh. “That’s Emilio.”

“Your family is pretty awesome.”

“So is yours.” He pulls me forward to lie on his chest, and he turns the lights down low. I burrow into him, knowing that this is where I’m supposed to be.

***

The next morning, I wake up to someone shaking my shoulder. I look up and find Ryan. “Wake up,” he says.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your parents are here.”

“They are? Why?” I brush my hair out of my eyes.

“Something happened. I’m so sorry.”

My heart thudding, I jump out of bed and get dressed.

I step into the living room and Marta and Emilio get to their feet. “Lark,” Emilio says. “Stay calm.”

“Someone should probably tell me what’s happened,” I suggest.

“You remember when I lost my phone yesterday?” Ryan says, wincing.

“Yes. Why?”

“Apparently I didn’t lose it. Samantha stole it.”

“And?”

“And she sold your pictures to the news outlets.”

“What pictures?”

He winces. “The before and after pictures of your scars and the tattoos.”

Emilio flips on the TV and finds a channel where the news is playing. “In entertainment news today,” the announcer begins.

I fall onto the couch, my knees weak as I see my original scars and hear the story of how I got them, of my parents dying in the fire, and my suicide attempts.

“People know,” I tell them.

“What do you want to do about it?” Emilio asks.

I square my shoulders. “Call a press conference,” I tell him.

“Are you sure, mija?” Marta asks.

“I’m positive.” I’ve never been more positive about anything in my life.

“Okay,” she says softly.

“I’ll get ready,” I say. And I go to shower, and then I go home and change my clothes and put on makeup. I put on a pretty outfit with short sleeves, and I show up at the press conference.

The room goes silent when I walk in with my sisters, their husbands and boyfriends, and with the Reeds and their wives behind me. Ryan stands with his family, his mother included, and the fact that they are here, too, catches me right in the gut. They must have come straight from the hospital. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. I have to keep it together.

I step up to the podium.

“I’ll take questions now,” I say softly.

“Did you try to kill yourself, Ms. Vasquez?” someone asks.

“When I was fifteen years old, yes, I did. I had lost my birth parents, and I felt like their deaths were my fault. I found it hard to get over the loss of them, and I’m still not over it. I still have periods of grief and sometimes the guilt overwhelms me. But I get through it.”

“Do you take medication for your problems?” someone else asks.

“To which problems are you referring?”

“You mentioned depression and suicidal thoughts.”

“Whether or not I take medication is not relevant—”

“But it is,” the reporter shoots back. “America wants to know how you’re going to keep it together.”

“Do you know why I’m here today?” I ask the crowd of reporters.

Cameras click, cameramen adjust their lenses, and microphones are pushed closer.

I clear my throat so I can talk past the lump in it. “I’m here today because I want our fans to know that depression is a disease. It’s not a lack of mental fortitude or an emotional weakness.” I tap my chest. “If I had a problem with my heart, I would be urged to see a cardiologist. If I had a problem with my knee, someone would suggest that I get an anti-inflammatory for it. If my lungs didn’t work, I would see a pulmonologist and find what medical route I could take to get better.”