Sabrina's Guide to Searching for Someday: The Guiding Series, #3

By Cynthia A. Rodriguez

We're all running away from something. 
Sabrina Milas doesn't have time to be heartbroken. After marrying the man she thought was a safe bet, she's back on the market with two kids in tow. 
But no one knows about the only man to break her heart. Until Abraham Pugliesi shows up, determined to make himself known. 
Their scorched past leaves little room for a warm reception between the once disgraced professor and his undergrad lover. 
What happens when the past and present collide? 
Or when the one who got away refuses to stay away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cynthia Rodriguez
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201232931

Book preview

1

THE GIRL HE FELL IN LUST WITH

PRESENT

Time is a tricky little bitch.

It has no loyalty to any of us and it stretches and snaps at its own will.

And sometimes, it tears, ending moments in the blink of an eye.

For Peter, I’m sure he’d tell you that’s how I asked for a divorce. That I woke up one day and told him it was over.

His look of bewilderment pisses me off, just thinking of it. Like I haven’t been coming out of my own skin, trying to keep everything together.

It doesn’t matter that I argued back and forth with myself for years about staying with him for the sake of our girls. It doesn’t matter that the war I waged on myself was hard won. Peter still sees me as quitter.

And now we’re separated and I’m walking through a grocery store alone, trying to figure out what our daughters will need for the week. As if living in separate bedrooms in the same house as my estranged husband has made it impossible for us to carry out this task together.

But everything seems different now, something I’m sure Peter would agree with. In his mind, he could sum it up in one sentence: I turned thirty-one and I lost my mind.

As I peruse through the avocados, I think about the last time I lost my mind. Ten years is a long time to be sane. And if that girl could see me now, would she recognize me? With my dark hair, no longer trying to mask the brown that I inherited from my crazy as hell mother.

As the years went on, I realized that it wasn’t just dying my hair that paid homage to the vastness I desired between the two of us.

I make sure I’m an amazing mother, just to prove to myself that I’m nothing like her. And keeping score with her memory is taxing.

It’s strange to be here without Penny and Jilly, but it’s even stranger to be out at the grocery store when I’d usually be at the office, putting in extra hours into the interior design firm I started with my best friend from college.

We’re in our seventh year and finally handling the types of clients we’d had our eyes on since our company’s inception.

I twist the top of the produce bag as I absentmindedly smile, setting it in my cart, proud of everything she and I have managed to accomplish.

I’m reaching for a bag of spring mix that will undoubtedly go bad in my refrigerator when I glance to my left.

The bag I was holding slips from my grip, and I turn away from my shopping cart, deserting it in my attempt to escape. Someone bumps into me, and I rush to the next aisle, feeling like I can’t breathe.

What the fuck is he doing here?

And why the fuck did I think I’d never see him again?

When Miley sent me a picture of him over a month ago while she was picking out furniture with clients, I’d figured it was a one-off. That he was in the area and that was that.

But the world doesn’t work that way, does it?

This is karma, you stupid bitch.

But is it? Truly?

I’d stared at his picture for hours, trying to figure out how this random puzzle piece fit into the jumbled mess that is my life. Until I deleted his photo and remembered that the past belonged far behind me.

Certainly not in the fucking produce section of my local grocery store.

My heart is beating fast as I try to breathe through the adrenaline that spiked the moment I saw the familiar profile searching through apples not ten feet from me.

Had he seen me?

I’m going crazy in the fucking cereal aisle, my hand on my chest as I peer over the corner, to see if the coast is clear.

I see him walking toward me, his eyes on a jar in his hand.

The sight of him doing his own grocery shopping is something I never thought I’d witness. Something so everyday and public; something I’d never been privy to in our past lives. I jerk back into the aisle when he starts to look up, turning so I’m facing away as he walks past. I count to five and grab a box of cereal to hide behind before I peek back just as he steps in line to pay.

He isn’t very far. I could take a dozen steps and be right behind him.

Part of me wants to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he’s really in front of me. But I don’t. Of course I don’t, because that would be weird.

I stare down at my UGGs, my sweatpants and hoodie.

I’m far from the girl he fell in lust with.

I don’t dare call it love anymore. Not even if, in the deep recesses of my mind, I know it was the only time I really let myself fall into that kind of love.

Scary, free-falling to my death, love.

The kind of love that came with consequences that I was still dealing with.

He looks over his shoulder and I suck in a breath as his eyes skate to the right of me.

I duck away from his line of vision, my back against the shelf of cereal boxes. The sugary one in my grip gives a little under the pressure of my fingers, as if clutching my daughters’ favorite breakfast would make the ghost of my past disappear.

All the years of regret slam into me, holding me where I stand. I hold a piece of my present life while my mind fills with a past I’ve tried so hard to forget.

Without a backward glance, I drop the cereal box and rush out of the grocery store.

Abraham Pugliesi is back.

And he’s chasing me out of grocery stores.

As I get in my car, I think about beginnings and endings and how no one ever got to know how we began or that we’d ever even ended.

Our existence only existed between the two of us, and that’s the saddest part of it all.

2

THE LAST ROMANTICS

PAST

I tried to tell you, Miley tells me, her sage wisdom interrupted by a drunk giggle. Because drinking on a Sunday night before the start of the summer semester is probably what I should’ve been doing instead of standing outside of the movie theater, talking to my tipsy best friend on the phone.

I just had to say yes to one of these little assholes.

That’s what wanting to get laid will get you—stood up.

I kick out my foot, watching as my scuffed white Converse peeks up at me. A cool breeze picks up, flirting with the ends of my floral skirt. It brushes against the tops of my calves, and I turn, taking one last glance up the street.

Yeah, well. I’m gonna stay anyway. I turn on my heel and adjust the strap of my brown leather bag as I walk inside, determined to enjoy myself.

If you want some dick, there’s plenty here, she announces, and I hear a few male whoops in the background.

If I wanted any old dick, I’d fuck the homeless guy on the corner, I hiss, peering around as I step up to the building to purchase a ticket.

Suit yourself, she says, giggling before she ends the call.

I’ve never been able to just sleep with anyone. It’s a curse.

I have to get to know someone before I can decide if I’m attracted to them or not. Therein lies the reason for my unsolicited celibacy. I’m perpetually surrounded by young men who don’t want to be known. They don’t want to put in any work at all.

I huff when I realize no one’s come to the ticket booth before I notice someone inside, wiping down the concession counter. When I yank the door open, I’m startled by someone coming up behind me.

You’re fucking late— I start as I turn to give my date a piece of my mind, only for my mind to go blank. Because who the fuck is this?

He’s smiling as he reaches out to hold the door open behind me.

I wasn’t aware anyone was waiting on me, he says, and my brain detects a slight accent. I can’t quite place it, but I blink once before I step over the threshold.

I thought you were someone else, I respond, my heart pounding from complete embarrassment, my outward expression remaining stoic.

His grin is surrounded by a thick dark beard and his hair looks damp, like he may’ve just gotten out of a shower. He stands almost half a foot taller than me, which is impressive because I’m not short.

A shame. He glances past me, and I turn to look at the man standing at the concession stand, his stare only punctuated by the quick rise of one of his brows.

Oh, like you have anything better to do, I think to myself as I walk over to him.

"I’ll take one ticket to Roman Holiday," I start as I open my small pocketbook, reaching for my wallet.

Excuse me. The man from the door steps beside me, Make that two. He hands the man behind the counter a credit card before I can utter a word.

Oh… I don’t really know what to say. Thank you? Who the hell are you?

You’re welcome, he supplies as he’s handed back his card.

He glances at me through his thick, dark lashes as he pushes his card back into his wallet and his wallet into the pocket of his dark slim khaki pants that fit around his ass like they were tailor-made for him. I’m so sick of these fresh-out-of-their-teens guys who wear ill-fitting clothes and learned to fuck from poorly made porn videos.

This man…he reeks of grown motherfucker from his pants that actually fit him to the way he bought my movie ticket with no prompting.

I’m not an asshole, I offer, looking back up at his face and stepping away from him.

Of course you aren’t. He smiles like he knows a secret that I’m dying to find out.

I’m not, I insist as I walk toward the doors of the auditorium.

I am, he tells me with a shrug. More people should be.

What makes you say that? At this point, I want him to keep speaking, just to try to pinpoint his accent for certain. He’s all soft s’s and rolls over his r’s. Growing up with my Greek family members exposed me to the life of a polyglot.

Well, if you were, you wouldn’t be here waiting on someone who is very clearly an asshole. This time, when he smiles, I can see the lines around his eyes, and I wonder how many years it took for them to get there.

But I smirk, finding his logic flawed. I just wanted to get laid and make sure the person attached to the penis wasn’t a complete moron. He doesn’t need to know that, I think to myself, finding this exchange entertaining.

Did you want popcorn? Candy? He flirts momentarily with each word, speaking rapidly like he doesn’t have time to taste each syllable.

I…wasn’t aware we were watching the movie together. I peer around the empty theater.

If you have a better idea, let me know, he tells me, leaning toward me so a few tendrils of his dark hair brush against his forehead.

Italian? I think out loud, the lack of an H in his pronunciation giving him away.

The movie? Sure, yes.

No, you, I clarify, watching his lack of reaction.

Once upon a time. He steps back down the aisle. Pick a seat. I’ll be back.

He’s walking back through the door, in spite of the way I start to object, my hands lifted. They fall to the sides as I watch the door to the theater swing shut.

It’s eerily silent in here, only the slight sound of machinery humming from somewhere in the building.

I give the door one last glance before I shrug, hoping he picks something good before I head toward the middle of the theater seats. Because everyone knows the middle is the perfect place to sit.

My eyes flit to the screen as credits start and music swells, filling the empty space.

Maybe homeboy hadn’t shown because classic movies aren’t his thing. Maybe he’s more of a Michael Bay fan; an uber douche who sprays his junk with Axe body spray and thinks common courtesy is for pussies.

Either way, I type out a fuck you and send it before blocking his number. The smirk on my face is interrupted by the strange once-Italian man coming down the aisle. He makes his way to the open seat next to me and I catch sight of the peanut M&Ms tucked in his arm.

I’m surprised you chose this area. The back is much better, he tells me as he settles in beside me, setting the cup in his hand into the cupholder between us like he hadn’t just said something completely ridiculous.

As the lights dim, I stare at him, wondering where the hell he even came from. Italy, apparently. Aside from that, had I dreamed him up? Was my magical pussy to blame for his sudden appearance?

Was this divine feminine sorcery? Like my horniness and desperation had put out some kind of signal.

Do people not watch classic movies anymore? I mutter, reaching for the candy he holds out toward me. I tear the corner of the bag open and pop an M&M in my mouth, feeling his gaze on me as I chew.

With so many newer options to choose from, they’re often overlooked, he muses as I glance at him just as he turns to look at the screen. In the dark, I can only just make out his beard and the way his lips slightly purse as he focuses on the screen.

You aren’t a fan of the newer stuff? I ask, hating the Boston cadence that peeks out when I don’t actively try to hide it.

I don’t discriminate, he says, looking at me again and though it’s dark, though I don’t even know his name, I find the innuendo in his tone.

You don’t think it’s strange that we’re the only people here? I ask, unsure how to handle his braveness. I’m far better with the fumbling young men who are intimidated by my lack of desire for their affections.

Perhaps we’re the last romantics in this city, he murmurs, and I train my eyes on the screen, even as I fight the smile that wants to spread across my lips.

Romantic isn’t a word anyone back home would use to describe me. But that’s one of the reasons I came here; to become someone else while simultaneously hiding myself amongst hundreds of others trying to do