He found Yadiel sitting in a hospital bed playing with Star Wars LEGOs. A sling kept his left arm mostly still. Ignacio sat on a chair next to the bed reading a murder mystery in Spanish.

“Mijo, are you okay?” Ashton rushed over, checking his son for any other signs of injury or distress.

But Yadiel simply received him with a sunny, gap-toothed smile. “Hi, Papi. Can we go home now? To the apartment, I mean.”

Ignacio closed the book and stood. “We’re all done here,” he said in Spanish. “They patched him up sooner than expected. We would have met you back at the rental, but you were already on your way, so we figured we’d wait. Your grandparents already went back in a taxi.”

Ashton felt like the floor had rocked under his feet. Yadiel was . . . fine. Everyone was fine. Without him. He’d built up all this anxiety and fear—for nothing. And now the emotions had nowhere to go.

Ignacio gathered the LEGOs and his book into Yadiel’s Spider-Man backpack and hoisted it over his own shoulder. “Vámonos, Yadi.”

“Okay, ’Buelo.”

Ashton moved to help, but Yadiel slid off the bed on his own and skipped out of the room.

Feeling useless, Ashton walked beside his father. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

Ignacio shrugged. “No es nada. You know this happens to Yadiel all the time. Since we were in the same city, I figured you could come deal with the insurance and everything. But I handled it. No big deal.”

As Ashton followed his father and his son out of the ER, an unpleasant feeling simmered in his gut.

His own family didn’t need him. They managed just fine, functioning as a cohesive unit whenever he wasn’t there . . . which was most of the time. Everything he’d done had been for their safety and well-being. But as much as he wanted to protect his son from everything, maybe he couldn’t. And maybe . . . that was okay.

If that was true . . . he’d been tremendously unfair to Jasmine.

He wanted to run back to her. To apologize, to spill all of his hopes and fears where Yadiel and his family were concerned.

But after all he’d said, he had no right to ask her for any more emotional labor on his behalf. They were done. And it was better this way.

He was on his own.

Chapter 37

The wrap party was held at an event space in Chelsea with a trendy, industrial vibe. Exposed pipes, neon pink and purple lighting, gray concrete floor, and a circular bar in the center manned by two overworked bartenders.

Jasmine hated it. The air-conditioning was cranked to eleven, and she was freezing in a strapless red minidress. Her feet hurt, thanks to her strappy stilettos, and because she was scared that she’d get sloppy if she let herself drink, she was knocking back glasses of seltzer instead of champagne.

Which meant, on top of everything else, she had to pee every half hour.

But she needed to grin and bear it. There were members of the press everywhere, along with some actors from other ScreenFlix shows and a few local celebrities.

And as much as Jasmine tried to avoid Ashton, everyone wanted pictures of them together. The whole show hinged on their chemistry, and they’d done too good a job convincing everyone they were in love.

Including themselves.

“Another seltzer.” Lily tottered over from the bar on sky-high heels and passed Jasmine her drink. “I swear, these vodka tonics are the only thing keeping my shoes on. How much you wanna bet I’ll be barefoot in the next hour?”

Jasmine snorted. “I’m not taking that bet.”

She saw Tanya heading toward them and shoved her drink back at Lily. “Be right back,” she said. “Gonna hit the restroom again.”

Before she could get far, a firm hand gripped her elbow. Jasmine turned, and Tanya shot her a wide grin. With her other hand, Tanya held Ashton’s wrist in a death grip. “You two are wanted for another interview.”

Jasmine bit back a groan and tried to smile. “Of course.”

Tanya positioned them in front of a backdrop covered in the Carmen in Charge logo. It also happened to be located right under an air vent, and Jasmine clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. The saving grace was that she’d left her hair loose, and it provided a slight bit of cover on her neck and back.

A perky interviewer from an entertainment news channel stepped up to them with a mic. The camera guy turned a bright light on them and gave a thumbs-up.

Jasmine flashed what she thought of as her red-carpet grin—big enough to make it obvious that she was smiling, but not so big that she couldn’t talk—and tried to ignore the blinding light and freezing air.

The interviewer asked the same questions they’d already been asked countless times that night.

What can audiences expect from Carmen in Charge?

How different is it from working on soaps/telenovelas?

How does the show resonate for you as Latinx actors?

And then, of course, What is it like filming romantic scenes together?

To the last, Jasmine would joke, “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.” Every single time. Let them all have the same sound bite—she didn’t care.

Ashton, the big jerk, was as handsome as ever, dressed in a sleek charcoal gray suit with his hair curling freely. He answered questions with his particular brand of cool charisma, but Jasmine could tell he was dying inside.

They stood next to each other for interviews and photos, and he put his arm around her when he had to, but he held himself stiffly, his hand hovering over her skin, not touching her.

Finally, Jasmine couldn’t take the cold anymore, and her fifth—sixth?—seltzer and lime was testing the limits of her bladder. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured to Tanya, then made a beeline for the restroom.

She passed Lily, who was chatting with Nino and his boyfriend.

“I drank your water,” Lily called, and Jasmine waved her off.

In the gender-neutral restroom area, Jasmine caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the sinks. Shit, she looked awful. Not her hair and makeup—those were perfect, thanks to a team of stylists—but her eyes were wide with anxiety, her jaw rigid, and she looked . . . skittish, almost. As if she were ready to leap out of her skin at any moment.

Damn it. No, she knew just what she looked like—that damned picture on her grandmother’s refrigerator! She could almost see the word “DUMPED!” hovering over her head.

Not this time, Kitty Sanchez, Jasmine thought. This time, I dumped him.

Except that didn’t make her feel any better. And it didn’t exactly feel true.

After leaving the restroom, she sent Lily a text.

Jasmine: I’m leaving. Feet hurt. Too cold in here. See you later. Drink more water!

And then she ducked out a side entrance and took a taxi back to the hotel.

The whole way, she fought back tears. This was the wrap party for a show she had starred in. She should be happy!

She was miserable.

This is why you don’t date costars, dummy, her brain shouted at her. So much for being a Leading Lady. Go back to soap operas where you belong.

At her hotel room, Jasmine let herself in and turned on all the lights. After kicking off her shoes and shimmying out of the dress, she went to her shoulder bag, pulled out her wallet, and removed the Leading Lady Plan she’d created with her cousins. She stared at her grandmother’s name on the top of the paper for a moment, then with deliberate, decisive motions, she tore the paper into tiny pieces and left them scattered on the dining table that was haunted by memories of Ashton.