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“How do I tell her some of it without telling her the whole?” I groan.
“Leave that up to me.” Without waiting for my response, Thorn disconnects the call.
Leaving me wondering what the hell he’s planning.
I fall asleep in the hotel room chair, waking with a horrible pain radiating from my neck and down my arm. But the one good thing is it gives me an idea of where to start. The only question I have is whether Jesse can handle my father on his own because I’m sure as fuck not leaving Fallon now that I’m here.
Maybe forever is enough time for her to eventually feel the waves of love instead of the pain I doled her way.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Wondering if it’s time for a new job? Well, we can’t answer that for you. All we can offer are some thoughts for you to consider:
You feel dread going to work;
You feel constant stress and fatigue;
Your work culture is permeating other areas of your life—aka, toxicity;
Your values no longer align.
—The Fireside Psychologist
After a week in New York, I’ve returned to work to finish out my time before my transfer. I’m reminded of the loss of my mother constantly because of well-meaning “I’m so sorry for your loss” comments. It’s not that people are trying to be hurtful, it’s just that each one feels like a tiny stab in my heart, given so frequently, there’s no time for any scabbing in between.
I’m more than ready to head home to continue packing by the time my day’s over. My boss did little more than mutter a “Run away,” before I stood from my chair, grabbed my bag, and sprinted for the exit.
As the sun shines down over the impressive formal gardens, the tightness in my chest begins to ease as I slow my pace. Unlike this morning, I take time to admire the perennials as well as the hydrangeas, now in full bloom. Paired with the vitex and the weeping sourwoods, I stop dead in my tracks. I never thought I’d relate to flowers after my mother’s funeral but these? There’s a note of awe in my tone when I voice, “It’s like the garden’s feeling my pain.”
A voice interrupts my introspection. “It’s not just the flowers that are doing that, witch.”
I still. Ethan’s voice, infiltrating another of my safe spaces, sends spiraling emotions cascading through me particularly since due to Leanne’s words, he’s been on my mind constantly since I returned from New York.
I whirl around to face him head on and brace myself to be confronted again, only to have my bitterness temporarily washed away by the abject sorrow on his face. Or the pride in his voice when he nods at me before saying, “Being a curator looks good on you.”
Still unwilling to let him completely off the hook, I question, “Did someone send you here to investigate this job choice, Ethan?”
He has the good grace to wince. “No. I just wanted to see you.”
I wait for him to say more, but instead, he makes his way toward me at a slow and steady pace. I edge myself backward until he leaps forward and snatches me around the waist. Breathless, I slam my hands up between us. Before I can even formulate the words to yell at him, he steps back. His voice is on the precipice of lifelessness when he informs me, “You need to be more careful, Fallon. You were about to fall.”
Twisting my head, I see where I was about to back down a set of eight marble stairs. No, it might not have been a fatal fall, but it still would have been painful. “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I just…”
“Just what?”
“I just didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“You’re the one who hurt me!” I shout.
If the cure for agony is pain, then I’m seeing every ounce of agony Ethan is suffering by the expression on his face. He pleads, “Fallon, I know I’m likely the last person you want to spend time with but can we go somewhere and talk.”
A colleague on the restoration team calls out, “Night, Fallon!”
“Night. See you tomorrow,” I call back before returning my attention to Ethan—an Ethan whose jaw is clenched so tightly, the bones might snap. Coolly, I prompt, “You were saying?”
“I want to apologize.”