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What the hell made me think this was a good idea to stay? Oh, right. Because I was scared. In Karnataka, India, they toss newborns out a window into a makeshift blanket thirty feet below to crowd surf. Doesn’t make it a good idea.
Keeping this from him for three weeks was, in fact, a bad idea.
I’m an idiot. A motherfucking stupid idiot, and I should be tossed out a window.
The realization hits me like a bullet to my heart. That’s when I burst into tears. I know I have no right to feel sorry for myself for my actions, but it certainly doesn’t stop the pain.
Twenty minutes later, I can hear Barron’s truck coming up the driveway. I nervously pace the kitchen until he comes inside. When he walks through the door, he tosses his keys on the counter. I brace myself for the words I know I’m going to hear, because I deserve them, and they’re going to hurt. But, nothing comes. No anger. No yelling. No… reaction at all.
He blows out a steady, controlled breath. “You stayed. Huh. I thought for sure you’d leave.”
“Where was I going to go? Hitchhike on a horse?” I point out sarcastically, because I’m nervous and I get sarcastic when I’m nervous.
He says nothing. Not a damn word but his glare, yeah, that’s enough to make my blood turn cold. And beg him to fuck me on the counter. Holy shit. Why is that glare so damn hot? Tie me to your bed. Hold me hostage. Give me your anger.
Kacy, no.
Say something. Explain yourself. “I’m so sorry,” I rush to say. “I can leave. I didn’t… I’m just so sorry I didn’t say anything.”
He holds up his hand, shaking his head and pointing to the fridge.
Um, okay. What does that mean? I notice his hand is bleeding. “Oh my God, your hand.”
“It’s fine.” He moves past me and opens the door to the refrigerator. Reaching for the Southern Comfort in the freezer, he unscrews the cap and lifts it to his lips. Our eyes meet. Hold. Drinking straight from the bottle, he does two shots and then sets it on the counter. He’s surprisingly… relaxed. I try to decipher the expression, the pursed lips, his breathing, all of it, but I can’t. Truth is, I don’t know this guy that well. Maybe he’s one of those guys who masks his emotions and then explodes on you when you least expect it. My dad was one of them.
Biting my lip, I fidget with the sleeves of my sweater, wondering if I could suffocate myself with them and not feel this pain. “You’re probably so mad at me.”
“I’m not mad,” he whispers, staring at the bottle as he shakes his head back and forth. He looks me in the eyes, his lips in a firm, agitated line. “Okay, I’m mad. But I’m curious… did you know when you showed up here?”
“Knew who you were? Not technically. I knew of you.” I look at him, and his eyes lift to mine. Taking a seat next to him, I ease into my explanation. “I didn’t know when I was driving through town. I swear. I was simply driving, and then that storm hit out of nowhere, and the buck… I had no idea where you lived.” I sigh, knowing that’s not entirely the truth. “I knew you lived here in Amarillo because I mailed the papers to you a couple times, but it’s not like I memorized your address and I wasn’t coming to find you or anything creepy like that. When you said your name that night, that’s when I put two and two together.”
“I figured it was something like that.” He inhales a deep breath as he stands and begins pacing the kitchen, the bottle of Southern Comfort still in his hand. “But that’s the night you should have told me. Before this went any further.”
“I know, but I didn’t.” I remain sitting at the kitchen island, afraid to move. My words hold no authority when I say, “In my defense, I tried to leave. A few times.”
He steps closer to me, and I stand. Setting the bottle on the counter, I notice he’s keeping his composure but still angry. His dark eyes search mine. “Why didn’t you just come out and tell me? I probably would have laughed it off, but now it feels like you did it on purpose to hurt me.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I plead, hoping he understands. My words are desperate, begging, because I can’t bear for him to think I used him. “I wanted to tell you, but every time I tried to, the timing was off, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
He cautiously lifts his hand, his thumb brushing my cheek. He stares at me silently, studying me. It’s as if he’s evaluating my honesty. “I wish you would have told me the truth before you involved them.”
Them? His girls. My heart dives at his words. I wince. His statement crushes me so deeply it feels like a thousand pounds of steel hold me to the ground. My apology catches in my throat, but I manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”
Reaching for the Southern Comfort, he takes another shot straight from the bottle and then sets it on the counter with a thud. “You said that already,” he snaps and takes another shot.
And another.
He sets the bottle back down and sighs.
I swallow, tears burning my throat. “I should go. I can go.”
Silence fills the space between us, and I’m paralyzed, unsure what to say or do next.
His brow lifts, his breathing light and easy. “Don’t be like her.”
The words cut me. Deep. “What?’
“Don’t come into their life and leave right before Christmas.”