Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(65)

“What movie?” I ask, already knowing what the answer is.

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” And just like that, I’m booking a flight to Del Rio.

—

In the town of Ciudad Acu?a, there is a bar called La Dama, meaning “the lady.” It’s just across the Mexican border and a place I’ve visited many times. The damas are plentiful there too. But I’m not going for them. I’m going for the white lights that hang on the patio, the endless tequila, and my dama, who will be waiting for me.

Call it coincidence, fate, or divine intervention, but a black van was in the border line next to the cab Saylor took. And in that black van was Shady, who led her to the place she was searching for, after he called to tell me where she was. She never asked him to not tell me. I guess she assumed I was either coming or I didn’t give a shit. She probably thought the latter.

I’m ruling out coincidence and narrowing down the battle between fate and divine intervention when I find exactly what I’m looking for in an airport gift shop. Shit like this don’t just happen.

It’s dark, I’m standing outside La Dama, and I’m holding in my hands everything I need to make Saylor’s vision come true. When lightning strikes in the distance and I smell rain in the air, in the middle of a f*cking drought, I know that fate has nothing to do with this moment either. This is divine intervention. Her god didn’t let her down, and it may be unintentional, but he’s helping me out too.

Saylor is sitting at a table on the outside patio, running her finger across the glass of tequila that sits next to a bottle that’s just over half full. She hasn’t been here long and her mission is to get drunk, obviously. I’m not breathless at the sight of her. I’m not excited or joyful either. I’m heartbroken, again, and I’m on the verge of doing something I haven’t done in years.

Cry.

She’s lost weight. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face is sad. Her hair is wild and crazy, just how it always is, and it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed about her. There is no happiness in her eyes. There is no smile on her lips. The light that comes from her and illuminates everything around her is dim and depressed. And all I can think in this moment is that it is my fault.

I’ve taken everything good about her and destroyed it. I’ve sucked the joy and will to live right out of her and for what? Because I’m selfish. I’ve spent the past two weeks annihilating everything good about her because I was too selfish to appreciate what I had. No matter how long I had it.

The truth is, that even if the only time I ever had with Saylor came from those few encounters before I even knew her name, then I was luckier than the people who went a lifetime never being graced with her presence. I was an idiot, but I was fortunate. Some people only get one second chance. Now I have two.

My hands are shaking when I lay the black box in front of Saylor, who doesn’t even look up to see who it’s from. When she whispers my name, I finally get that breathless, excited feeling of joy I should have had when I first saw her sitting here.

“You’re late.” I watch her lips as they struggle to turn up to form a smile. I wonder if the memory of the first time we officially met is playing in her head like it is in mine. “I was beginning to think you were not going to make good on your promise.” She stares at her glass, never looking at me.

I promised to bring her here, not show up later because I’m so f*cked up that I left her when she needed me most.

“I’m here now,” I tell her, and my voice causes her to look at me for the first time. Even tired, sad, and heartbroken, she is still the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Cliché, but so f*cking true.

“Yes, you are. Will you sit with me?” When I do, she grabs my hand and holds it. My eyes lock on hers and I can see the dull pools of green slowly coming back to life.

“I know why you left. This isn’t easy for you. I know that now. I knew that then. But there is nothing we can say to fix what is wrong, so let’s not waste time with apologies or what-ifs or who was right and who was wrong. Let’s just live this moment. I want it to be as special as I’ve always imagined it would be.”

I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to tell her nothing is her fault and I shouldn’t have left. I want to tell her I was wrong and she was right and all the shit that men say when they f*ck up. But she wants none of that. And it’s not that important that I tell her because she already knows.

She’s proven time and again that she has the ability to read my mind, and this time is no different. I’ll make this night perfect for her. Better than she imagined.

“I bought you something,” I say, motioning to the untouched box in front of her.

“And I’m pretty sure I already know what it is.” And I’m pretty sure she does too.

—

Saylor emerges minutes later from the bathroom, wearing the white, floor-length dress I bought her. In her hair, I place the flower I picked from the tropical plant growing outside, and it completes the picture.

I pull her into my lap and we drink cheap tequila from a bottle, while traditional Mexican instrumental music plays in the background. By the time the rain starts, she is buzzing, I’m intoxicated more by her than the liquor, and not a word has been spoken between us.

I sit her in the seat across from me before standing and making the final arrangement to make her night special. I make my request, pass a twenty to the bartender, then make my way back to Saylor, who is still watching me from across the room.