Red Card to Your Heart: You Don't Deserve My Love Extra Time novel Chapter 18

Our relationship had begun as rapidly as a Mediterranean summer storm and ended just as quickly. When friends asked about bringing Federico to their New Year's parties, I simply said, "We're not together anymore."

Their reactions ranged from shocked gasps to knowing nods. Charlotte immediately tried setting me up with her cousin who "works in finance and has his own flat in Lisbon." I declined politely but firmly. I was still holding out for genuine sincerity in a relationship. If that person didn't materialize, I was perfectly content rebuilding my life alone.

Diego's mother continued her campaign of late-night calls and emotional messages.

"Please, Emma. Just once. He won't eat for anyone else."

"The doctors say his depression is making the recovery impossible."

"I'll double what I paid you before."

I remained unmoved, instead emailing her detailed instructions for the therapeutic massage techniques, the recipe for the custard buns Diego would sometimes eat, and contact information for the physical therapists who had been most effective. Then I booked a one-way ticket to Manchester.

It was time to go home.

On the day of my flight, I arrived at the airport early, determined not to repeat my previous travel mishap. As I settled into my window seat, mentally preparing for the journey that would take me away from Porto and all its complicated memories, a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Ciao, bella."

Federico stood in the aisle, his expression a mixture of hope and uncertainty. He gestured to the empty seat beside me.

"Seriously?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise. "You bought a ticket to Manchester?"

He nodded, his smile tentative. "Can I sit?"

What could I say? It was a sold-out flight, and he had a legitimate ticket. I nodded reluctantly.

As he settled in beside me, I noticed he was wearing the same orange jacket from when we'd first met at the airport weeks ago. The one that had made him so easy to spot in a crowd.

"I know you're angry," he began once we were airborne. "But I miss you, Emma."

Yet despite his grand gesture, he still hadn't tried to understand why I was upset. He simply wanted reconciliation without addressing the fundamental breach of trust.

"I was wrong. Let's get back together."

"Please forgive me."

"We were so good together."

He repeated these phrases in different variations throughout the flight, his hands gesturing animatedly as they always did when he was emotional. The same charming, passionate delivery that had won me over in Sardinia.

When he had first pursued me, I had analyzed his every message, every word choice, every emoji. Now, he couldn't even be bothered to offer a proper explanation about why he'd hidden his ex from me or lied about spending time with her.

I had repeatedly refused to see Diego despite his mother's desperate pleas. I truly couldn't imagine what compelling reason Federico could have had for secretly meeting his ex of four years.

"We're not getting back together," I finally said as the plane began its descent. "I'm starting fresh in Manchester. Alone."

After we landed, he stood beside me at the luggage carousel, still making his case. I wondered briefly where he planned to stay, what his return plan was.

"Emma? Emma Walsh?"

I turned to find a familiar face smiling at me—James Harrison, my parents' next-door neighbor from childhood. His sandy hair was shorter than I remembered, his shoulders broader, but his kind eyes were exactly the same.

"James! What are you doing here?"

"Your mum mentioned you were flying in today. Thought you might need a lift." He gestured to the parking garage. "Unless you've already arranged something?"

I hadn't, in fact. The one-way ticket had been an impulsive decision, with details to be sorted upon arrival.

"That would be wonderful, actually."

As we walked to his car, he asked about Portugal, about my plans now that I was back. His questions were respectful, interested without being intrusive. When I mentioned I'd need to find a flat, he suggested a decent building near the school where he taught English literature.

There was something calming about his presence—so different from Diego's intensity or Federico's exuberance. James moved through the world with quiet confidence, without needing to dominate every room he entered.

"It's good to have you back," he said as we drove toward my parents' house. "Manchester's missed you."

I looked out at the familiar gray skies and rain-slicked streets of my hometown, feeling a surprising sense of rightness. After years of Mediterranean heat and drama, the cool English reserve felt like a balm.

I would always carry those two relationships with me—the lessons they taught, the growth they prompted. But they were my past, not my future.

Whatever came next would be entirely my choice. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt ready to choose wisely.