The Spanish Love Deception

Chapter 171

One didn’t need to be young for their life to change in the span of an hour, a handful of minutes, or

nothing more than a few seconds. Life changed constantly, wickedly fast and terribly slow, when one

least expected it to or after a long time of chasing that change. Life could be turned around, inside out,

backward and forward, or it could even transform into something else entirely. And it happened

regardless of age, but most importantly, it didn’t care for time.

Life-altering moments spanned from a few seconds to decades.

It was part of the magic of life. Of living. Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

In my twenty-eight years of life, I had experienced few but very different life-altering moments. Some

had lasted seconds, no more than glimpses or moments in which a realization dawned. And others had

lasted minutes, hours, even weeks. Either way, I could count those moments with both hands. Recite

them from memory too. The first time I’d dipped my feet into the sea. The first math equation I’d solved.

My first kiss. Falling in and out of love with Daniel. All the terrible months after. Boarding that plane to

New York to start a new life. Watching my sister walk down the aisle with the biggest, happiest smile I

had ever seen on her.

And then there was Aaron.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to pick one single moment when it came to him. Because it was him, the

one thing that made that span of time important. Life-altering.

Falling asleep in his arms. Watching his lips bend into that smile that I knew now had only been for me.

Waking up to his voice, to the warmth of his skin against mine. Watching his face crumbling down. Him

walking away. His absence.

All of them had left a dent in my heart. In me. All of them had changed me. Shaped me into someone

who allowed herself to open up, to love, to needing and wanting to give herself not to anybody, but to

him.

But as much as all those moments that had made me fall helplessly in love with him left a mark I’d

never be able to erase, one that I didn’t think would ever fade, it was the split second when I had

known I needed to get myself on a plane to Seattle and find him, the one moment that felt …

transcendental. The realization that I had let him go too soon, too carelessly. So foolishly. The moment

it had dawned on me—like a blow straight to the middle of my chest—that nothing else besides going

to him mattered. That nothing should have stopped me from running into his arms. From being there for

him when he needed someone the most.

But was it too late? Was the clock still ticking on my life-altering moment, so I could turn it around, or

had I lost my chance?

My head spun with that question for six hours on the flight from New York to Seattle, continuously

bouncing from blinding hope to the dread that could only come from anticipating loss. And when the

plane touched ground, I still wasn’t sure whether to feel hopeful I was closer to him or whether I should

have employed that time to ready myself if Aaron told me that it was too late and asked me to walk

away.

I thought about it some more as I waited for a taxi, drove to the first hospital on my list of medical

centers with oncology specialists in Seattle, and asked in reception for Richard Blackford—a name I

had dug out from the internet from what Aaron had told me about him and his past.

That question kept whirling in my mind as I turned around, got myself into a new taxi, and repeated the

whole process with hospital number two. Then with hospital number three.

And right as my knees almost doubled with a mix of relief and trepidation at finally hearing the nurse at

the counter of hospital number three ask if I was family or friend, that question that was stuck in my

head was still screaming at me to be answered.

It still was now as I made my way to the waiting room on what would soon become the longest elevator

ride of my life.

Did I throw it all away out of fear and stupidity? Am I too late?

So, when the polished and metallic doors finally opened, I stumbled out of the elevator like someone

walking out of an interminable road trip. Limbs numb, skin sticky with dry sweat, and the sense of not

knowing where you were. My gaze anxiously scanned the space along the hallway before me, all the

way to the waiting room, where I had been told he’d probably be—my Aaron, the man who I had to get

to, to get back. And there, right there, sitting on a chair that barely accommodated his size, was my

answer.

With his arms on his knees and his head hanging low between his shoulders, there was my life-altering

moment.

And I realized as I stared into the distance—my heart feeling as weightless and hollow as ever when I

saw him there, alone, without me—that as long as I had him, my life-altering moment would never be a

measurement of time. It would never be as simple as marking a few points in the timeline of my life that

I could identify as transcendent. It was him. Aaron. He was my moment. And for as long as I had him,

my life would constantly be changing, be altered. I’d be challenged, cherished, loved. With him, I’d live.

And I’d fight for that. I’d fight for him like I hadn’t when he asked me to. I wouldn’t take no for an

answer. He was stuck with me. Just like he had promised me in Spain, in front of the people I loved the

most in this world. I’d prove that to him.

“Aaron,” I heard myself say. Let me be your rock. The hand that holds yours. Your home.

My voice was barely a whisper, too low and quiet to make it all the way to where he was. But somehow,

it did. It reached him. Because Aaron’s head snapped up. As he sat in that rigid plastic chair, his back

straightened, and his neck turned around. I could see the disbelief in his profile, as if he thought he

must have imagined me calling his name.

But I hadn’t. I was right here. And if he let me, I could take care of him. I would caress his back while he

sat in the dull and impersonal waiting room, brush his hair with soothing fingers, and make sure he ate

and slept. I’d comfort him with hugs and be the shoulder he leaned his forehead on as he grieved the

dad he might lose soon. The one who had missed so much, the one I knew Aaron felt like was already

gone.

His gaze scanned the space that separated us with the sheer determination I knew only he was

capable of. And I’d never know why, but I waited. I held very still as he swiped around. And then, after

what felt like an eternity and at the same time not enough time to prepare myself, blue eyes locked with

mine. My heart toppled over itself, and I felt the commotion inside my chest.

I watched his legs straighten, bringing him up.

Then, his lips parted with my name. “Lina.”

It wasn’t the L

ina instead of Catalina. It was the anguish in his voice—the need, the way his hair was ruffled, the bags

resting under his eyes, the wrinkles in his clothes that screamed they hadn’t been changed in a couple

of days—that propelled me forward. My legs sprinted across that hallway that separated us like they

had never run before. Toward him, right into his arms. Just how he had asked me to. And when I

reached him, I launched myself at him. I locked my body around his.

It wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t the time or the place, and he was carrying so much on his shoulders

already. There was so much we needed to talk about, but it was right. I knew it in my bones as his arms

closed around me.

He lifted me off the floor, squeezed me into his chest, held me in his arms.

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