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He’s a good man and he deserves someone better than me.
Someone who doesn’t have all these problems.
Someone who can fall for him freely and be with him openly.
I sag against the door, letting it all out, still hoping he’ll come bang on the door and plead with me to explain. I can’t be this person, though. It’s better that he doesn’t.
It’s the way we both knew it would end. I envisioned it would be him leaving me though, not the other way around. I take ashuddering breath, feeling exactly how I should, like shit. Not that any of it matters.
It was never meant to be. That’s all there is to it.
MASON
Seventeen. I called her seventeen fucking times. It hurts worse knowing she left me for something other than the one reason she should. Knowing that I couldn’t keep her on my own. I held on too tight. It’s my own fucking mistake.
But I saw what I could do for her.
What I could dotoher.
And that made me feel … something other than this. This fucking hate that I have brewing inside of me.
What the hell did I expect? I expected to keep her. For her to learn to love me. For that to cancel out what I’d done.
The ice clinks in my glass as I grab a bottle of Macallan single malt.
No reasoning or any amount of logic justifies why I feel betrayed and alone. Not a damn explanation can leave me feeling as though this is something that doesn’t need to be mended. The liquor sloshes in the bottle as I read the label, my fingers playing with the seal.
My father gave me this bottle as a gift when I started the company with Liam. When I told him I was going into business for myself, but still doing what I loved. I felt so much pride that day. My breathing quickens and my grip on the bottle tightens.
Relax.I grit my teeth, feeling an uneasy tightness settle through my body.
Jules was a sweet distraction; how fucking ironic. She pulled me away from reality. She made me feel like I had time. Like I had a choice.
I toss the seal onto my sideboard buffet, opening the bottle and not bothering to appreciate the rich scent before pouring it into the glass.
If my father were here, he’d give me hell for drinking it over ice.
“But that bastard’s not here,” I sneer under my breath. “No one is.” The last thought leaves my chest feeling hollow. I take a long drink of the whisky that flows so easily. Burning and traveling through my chest, down deeper and stirring in the pit of my stomach. My head still tipped back I take another and finish the damn thing, the ice frigid against my lips. I slam the glass down a little harder than I should and let the liquor hit me.
It takes too long and I find myself gazing straight ahead to the family portrait sitting on top of the buffet. This room, the dining room, is the only room in the whole place where there’s a picture of anyone.
The rest of the house is devoid of anything truly personal. But what do I really have that’s personal anyway? My lacrosse stick and all those fucking uniforms stayed at my parents’ where they belonged. I’m sure they were thrown away long ago.
I pour more of the whisky into the glass, feeling my breathing slow as my body sways and I remember the first day I walked in here.
I’d just gotten all new clothes, all new furniture, all new everything. This home was the start of the professional version of me. All that was in the cardboard box I was holding were a handful of old tee shirts and a few postcards from a friend ofmine in Germany I’d met after I graduated high school and got my first job in construction. We’ve lost touch since then.
I take a sip, listening to the ice rattle against the glass. The whisky sits on my tongue and I press it against my teeth before swallowing. All the awards I’ve won are in my office. Framed and arranged just so on the wall.
My gaze drifts back to the portrait of the three of us. I’m standing between the two of them in it. I don’t look a damn thing like her, like my mother. I’m the spitting image of my father. Mom’s smile is soft, but her eyes are what sparkle. She was so expressive. Soft spoken, but she made what she said count.
She could make an entire room laugh by only speaking once the whole night. I let out a breath, looking at the firm hand my father has on my shoulder in the photograph.
He liked that about her. He told me once she was the perfect example of what a wife should be. That was before he caught her cheating.
I wonder if that man, the one she risked her marriage to sleep with, loved to hear her talk. I wonder if that’s why she did it. Because she had more to say than just a single sentence.
I down the whisky, dragging out the chair at the head of the table and taking a seat. I sag and let my head lean back against the crest rail of the antique chair.