Chapter One

Tessa

Three Months Later…

Sometimes I’d rather die than go through one more day of feeling like this.

But I’m not suicidal. I don’t have a stash of sleeping pills or razor blades hidden at my place. The thought of anything like that sickens me. I’ve spoken to my therapist ad nauseam about these feelings, and she agrees I’m not at risk of ending my life.

She originally called it “passive suicide ideation,” but then she explained that term means actively thinking about one’s own death without having any plan for bringing it about.

Then after several sessions, she agreed that’s not me, either. I don’t actively think about ending my life or even about dying. Sometimes, though, I just feel like I’d rather be dead than go through one more day of this agony.

On my computer screen are photos of a private Jamaican resort. The featured image on the website is, of course, the gorgeous beach. The blue of the ocean contrasts with the dazzling white sand. Palm trees frame the outer edges, adding a lush green to the scene.

The photo must be enhanced. Nothing can be that beautiful.

My mood changes daily.

Today’s a bad day.

But I also have good days, and I remind myself of that when I’m having a bad day. I remind myself that I love the beach, the blue sky, the feeling of sand squishing between my toes. The sound of seagulls flying overhead. Stepping around jellyfish. Finding a starfish and throwing it back into the water, to its life.

Right now, I’m busy—or at least trying to be—planning my best friend’s bachelorette party in Jamaica. Skye Manning is marrying the blue-collar billionaire Braden Black, so no expense will be spared. Funny, the old Tessa—before Garrett Ramirez changed her—would love planning the most amazing bachelorette bash on the planet for her best friend in the world.

I’m glad to have a reprieve when my phone buzzes. It’s my father. Comfort settles over me. My father is such a strong and kind man, and I know he’d bear this burden for me if he could.

“Hey, Da,” I say into the phone.

“Hey, angel,” he says in his low voice. “Just wanted to hear your voice. Let you know your mom and I are thinking of you. How are you getting along?”

“I’m okay.” It’s not a lie, exactly. I’m not having a great day, but I don’t want him to worry. “I’m working on the bachelorette stuff for Skye.”

“Tessa, what have I told you your whole life? About lying to me?”

Good old Da. He always knows. Knows me better than I know myself sometimes. “I’m sorry. Today’s a bad day.”

“You want me to come get you? You know you can always come home if you need to.”

“I know, Da. Thanks. But I’m fine. Some days are harder than others, but I’m muddling through.”

“You’re a strong woman, Tessa. Just like your mother and your grandmother before her. You’ve got that Esparza spunk. Don’t forget that.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel very strong.”

“I know. We all feel that way occasionally.”

“Even you?” My father is so strong and robust. Sometimes I think he could face a Sherman tank and come out on top.

“Even me, sweetie. But you already know that.”

A lump forms in my throat. My father and I have always been close, and he’s been a rock for me these last few months. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Da.”

“You never have to worry about that. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will. Love you.”

“I love you too, angel.”

I end the call, and my adorable terrier-mix rescue dog, Margarita—Rita for short, named after my favorite cocktail, even though I no longer drink—climbs up into my lap.

The fact that Saint Rita is the patron saint of impossible and desperate causes isn’t lost on me. Nana used to tell me about the saints when I sat in her lap as a little girl.

She was my safe place.

How I wish she were here now.

…

Eighteen years earlier…

Nana has an altar in her room. I love Nana’s room because it has pretty gold wallpaper, and it always smells good. Kind of like smoke and perfume. Mommy and Da are Catholic, and so is Nana, but she’s a different kind of Catholic. She goes to Mass with us, but she also prays to the Virgin Mary at home, at her altar. She calls her “Our Lady of Guadaloop.”

The smoky and perfumy smell is from the incense she burns.

Mommy and Da don’t do things like that.

I stand at her door and wait until she opens her eyes and puts down her rosary.

“Come in, little one,” she says without turning toward me.

I rush in and scramble into her lap.

She kisses my forehead. “I always know when you’re there,” she says. “You and I have a special bond because you’re named after me.”

“I am? But your name is Nana.”

Nana smiles and strokes my hair. “But my given name is Teresa Maria, just like yours.”

A warm feeling, kind of like a hug, spreads over me. I love sitting with her at her little altar.

So many candles and incense. It smells kind of like cinnamon but also like something else. “It’s called frankincense,” she once told me when I asked about the woodsy aroma.

“Like what the wise men gave to baby Jesus?” I asked.

“Yes. The smoke helps carry my prayers up to Mary in Heaven.”

I love hearing Nana tell me about Mary and the other saints she prays to.

“Tell me about one of the saints, Nana,” I say to her now.

“All right.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you about one of my favorite saints.”

“Santa Maria?” I ask. “The Blessed Virgin? Our Lady of Guadaloop?”

“It’s Guadalupay,” she corrects me, “and you know all about her, little one.”

“Saint Michael, then. The Archangel.”

“You know all about him as well.”

I squint as I try to remember some of the other saints. “Saint Peter, Saint Paul.”

“No, little one. I want to tell you about Saint Rita.”

My eyes pop into circles. “I didn’t know there was a Saint Rita.”

“Oh, yes.” Nana stares at her altar. “Saint Rita holds a special place in my heart. She is the saint of impossible or desperate causes.”

“What does that mean, Nana?”

“It’s when people lose all hope.”

“Why would people lose all hope?”

Nana sighs and smooths out my dark hair. “Sometimes, little one, life takes a turn. A bad turn. But that’s not going to happen to you. Not while I’m alive.”

I snuggle into her, inhale her scent that’s like roses and oranges put together.

She kisses the top of my head. “Saint Rita was born in 1381 in a small town in Italy. She wanted to become a nun when she was little, but her parents didn’t like that idea, so they arranged for her to be married to a man named Paolo. They had two sons together, but the marriage was not a happy one, not like your mommy and da.”

“Mommy and Da sometimes fight.”

Nana smiles. “All married couples fight. Your papa and I used to fight before he died, but we were always happy, and we loved each other very much.”

“That’s good. I don’t want to think that my mommy and da are unhappy.”

“Your mommy and da are very happy. I’m blessed that they let me live here with them. I love being here with you and your sister, little one.”

I smile, looking up into Nana’s dark brown eyes. Her skin is darker than mine. “Are you from Italy, Nana, like Saint Rita?”

“No. I’m from Mexico. But I came here when I was just a little girl.”

“But Saint Rita was from a place called Italy.”

“Yes, and her marriage was unhappy. Her husband was not a nice man.”

“Did he hurt her?”

Nana frowns and doesn’t say anything for a minute. “No one really knows, little one. But what we do know is that Rita prayed for her husband, and eventually he repented, and she forgave him.”

“So then they were happy?”

“For a little while, but eventually Paolo died.”

I drop my mouth open. “How did he die?”

“He was killed, but Rita was a very religious woman. She was able to forgive his killers.”

Sometimes Nana says things that I don’t understand. “What’s forgive?”

“It means she wasn’t angry with his killers anymore.”

“What did she do then?”

“She decided to do what her parents had forbidden her to do. She became a nun. She was very devoted to Jesus and often prayed about his suffering. Her greatest wish was to offer her own physical and spiritual pain for the salvation of souls.”

“I don’t know what that means, Nana.”

“It means she was willing to go through pain so that others would be saved. That’s why she’s known as the saint of impossible or desperate causes.” Nana touches her forehead, her chest, and then each of her shoulders before touching her chest again. She calls it “making the sign of the cross.”

“What’s an impossible cause?” I ask.

“It’s when things are hard, little one. Or when someone hurts you.”

“Why would anyone hurt me?”

She squeezes me in a hug. “No one will hurt you as long as your nana is alive. And even the day that I’m no longer with you, your mommy and da will protect you.”

“But why would someone hurt someone else?”

Nana sighs. “Oh, my innocent little one, I don’t know. But some people do. Some people hurt others.”

“Do those people go to Hell?”

Nana doesn’t answer me.

“Do they, Nana?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I hope that they do, and other times I hope that they don’t.”

“Why do you change your mind?”

“Because human beings aren’t perfect, Tessa. Sometimes I feel more forgiving than other times.”

“But Saint Rita forgave her husband. And she forgave others.”

“And that’s why she’s a saint and I’m not.” Nana lifts me up off her lap and sets me down on the floor. “Run along, little one. I hear your mother calling for lunch.”

…

Present Day…

Seriously, I named Rita after the cocktail, but now, as I stroke her soft head, I feel like she’s my own little guardian angel. My own saint helping me with my own desperate situation. She’s my safe space, since Nana is no longer here.

Why would anyone hurt me?

No one will, as long as your nana’s alive. And even the day that I’m no longer with you, your mommy and da will protect you.

I believed Nana that day. I continued to believe her, even as I grew up and left Catholicism behind me. I believed her even after she passed away.

But now, I no longer believe her.

My therapist helped me get Rita designated as my emotional support animal, and I swear the little pup is somehow able to get inside my head. She’s there whenever I need her. And right now? I need her badly.

I stroke her soft head. “Such a good puppy. What would I do without you, Rita?”

I continue perusing the website for the private resort Braden Black booked for his and Skye’s bachelor and bachelorette parties when my phone buzzes next to my laptop. I pick it up. Unknown number. Though I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, Skye told me to expect a call from Braden’s brother and best man, Benjamin Black. He’s coordinating the bachelor party, and apparently, he and I need to chat.

A couple months ago, I would have been thrilled about this. Ben Black is one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston. Hell, in the country. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and he’s model-level handsome. He’s moved up a notch since his brother is now off the market. Any other time, any other place, I’d want to be first in line.

Funny how things can change in the blink of an eye.

“Hello?” I say into the phone.

“Tessa?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Ben Black.” His voice is rich and low. “I’m sorry we haven’t met yet. In fact, I can’t really believe we haven’t, considering my brother is marrying your best friend.”

I could tell him why. Because I’ve closed myself up like a hermit for the past several months. I only leave my apartment when I have to. I’ve been working at home as much as I can since I got out of the hospital. I’m an accountant, so most of my work can be done remotely. The few times I’ve met with Skye to talk about the wedding and the bachelor and bachelorette parties, it’s either been by phone or just the two of us alone here at my place.

“Yeah. I’ve been pretty busy,” I say instead, keeping it simple.

“Would you be able to meet me for a drink tonight?” he asks. “I feel like we should meet in person to go over everything. We should at the very least be able to pick each other out of a lineup.”

That’s a laugh. Every woman in the free world can pick Ben Black out of a lineup. His face is splashed all over the gossip rags and social media feeds.

“Like I said,” I emphasize, “I’ve been busy at work, and I still am. Maybe we could just chat over the phone?”

“I’m more of an in-person kind of guy. Can you meet me at The Stargazer tonight? Around seven thirty?”

I hold back a sigh. I really don’t want to go out, but this is Skye Manning—my best friend in the whole world since we met freshman year of college. In fact, I’m the one who encouraged Skye to let her hair down when Braden Black first began to pursue her. To say Skye is a control freak is the ultimate understatement. She is a classic type A. But she and Braden seem to fit together like two puzzle pieces, and I’ve never seen Skye happier.

I was horribly jealous at first. I felt like I was losing my best friend. But I didn’t lose Skye. In fact, I gained a friend in Betsy Davis, who I met through Skye. Of course, I haven’t seen much of Betsy lately, either. I’ve blown her off when she’s tried to make plans because I didn’t want to go out anywhere with anyone, but I can’t keep doing that. She’s one of Skye’s bridesmaids, so I need to get in touch with her and the others and sort things out for the wedding.

That’s all Ben is trying to do, so I have no excuse to tell him no.

“All right,” I say into the phone. “Fine. We can meet.”

“I can swing by your place and pick you up if you like,” Ben says.

My skin turns to ice and my heart thumps hard against my sternum, the tremor visible in my shirt.

Panic sets in.

Ben Black is probably a nice man, but the thought of being alone in a car with any man sends me into a tailspin.

“That’s kind of you, but no.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I’ll get there on my own.”

“Sure. See you then, okay?”

“Yeah. See you then.”

He must know what happened to me. Braden and Skye have certainly told him everything.

I may as well have a tattoo written in red letters across my forehead.

Tessa Logan was drugged and raped by Garrett Ramirez.

Tessa Logan almost died.

That’s how I know I’m not actually suicidal.

I don’t want to die. There are just days—like today—when I have a hard time with the simplest of tasks. When my torment is so great that I’m not sure I can get through one more day.

Honestly? Figuring out how to end my life would be too much effort.

I stroke Rita behind her ears. “Guess I’ve got to go out tonight, Rita.”

When did I last shower?

Working remotely has had a detrimental effect on my personal hygiene. On those days when I have to do a teleconference, I simply put on the bare minimum of makeup, brush my hair until it looks decent, and put on a clean blouse. I’m usually wearing my sweats, or sometimes only underwear—always a color, I hate white panties—as I sit in the meeting, forcing myself to engage. So far, I’ve been able to get my work done, and I have enough PTO for Skye’s bachelorette party and the wedding.

No problem, right?

I go through the motions, day by day. Force myself to get out of bed, get to my computer, do my work.

Despite the fact that I’ve been subsisting on bacon and Ben Jerry’s, I’ve lost ten pounds. Yes, those stubborn ten pounds that I’ve always wanted to take off are finally gone, yet I can’t be happy about it. When I look at my naked reflection in the mirror, I see the body I’ve always wanted.

Except it’s someone else’s body, and I can’t bring myself to care.

I log off the website, set Rita down, rise, and head to my bathroom.

Maybe a shower will help.

I turn on the shower, listen to the soothing sound of the water pelting onto the tile floor. Again, I take a look in the mirror. How many days has it been? Three, I think. My hair is starting to look oily at the roots. I walk into the shower and—

“Shit,” I say out loud.

My shampoo bottle is empty. I squeezed the last of it out during my previous shower.

I have to meet Benjamin Black at The Stargazer in a couple of hours, and I have no shampoo. At least I have conditioner.

“For God’s sake,” I grumble.

Time to do something the old Tessa never would have done—never would have been caught dead doing.

I squeeze shower gel into my palm and lather it through my hair.

Once my hair is shampooed and conditioned—or rather, shower-gelled and conditioned—I lather up my shower pouf and notice my legs.

From my Mexican-American mother, I inherited a gorgeous head of nearly black hair. But from my Irish-American father, I inherited the wonderful European trait of body hair everywhere.

Yeah, I’m basically the link between man and the ape.

But I can’t bring myself to shave. I just don’t have the energy.

I’ll wear jeans or leggings or something, even though it’s summer and I’ll be sweltering. The bar will be air-conditioned. I gather the energy to at least shave my armpits, and then I turn the water off and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel. Once I wrap myself in it, I grab another to wrap over my long, thick hair.

My face appears in the mirror once more, but this time I can’t see it because it’s steamed up from the shower.

What a metaphor for my life right now.

I’m just existing.

Existing in a fog.

I go to therapy twice a week, and my mother checks on me once a week.

I’ve been keeping up with work, but here’s the thing.

Next week, my boss expects me to go back to the office full-time. No more remote work unless I’m physically sick. I used to love going to the office. Talking to people, looking good, having in-person meetings.

I’ve known for a while that this was coming.

Just like I’ve known Skye and Braden’s wedding is coming, and still I’ve put off planning anything until the last minute.

I’m going to have to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and put them together into something that will hopefully resemble the Tessa Logan I used to be.