Page 11 of The Inn Dilemma (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker)
Christian ’ s expression softened, and he took a step toward me. He reached out, but before his hand landed on my shoulder, he let it drop. “ Don ’ t do this. You ’ re going to regret it.”
“ I won ’ t.”
“ You will. And you will grow to hate yourself for abandoning all of us.”
“ The only thing I hate is allowing Dad to bend me to his will. And it ’ s pathetic that you don’t put a stop to it when he does the same thing to you.”
Christian drew his lips into a firm line. The tenderness in his eyes was replaced with pure disdain. “ I ’ d rather achieve something with my life. Dad is right—your dreams of being a painter are obnoxious and childish.”
He turned and walked away before the look of guilt in his eyes told me he was sorry for the words he’d spit out. Before I could take back all the ugly things I said to him too.
“Nova,” Chris says, pulling me out of the memory of a fight that has haunted me for years.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry I left the way I did.
That I got rid of my old number and never called or texted you even though I knew your number by heart.
I’m sorry for all the ugly things I said before I left.
And I’m sorry I’ve been a selfish brat for the last four years.
” Emotion fills my throat until it feels as though it could suffocate me.
“I missed you.” I blow out a breath of regret.
“You and Dad were both right about Beau. He only had his best interests in mind. He never showed my paintings to the people he promised me he’d show them to.
I was a trophy girlfriend he paraded around at parties and events.
” I cover my face with my hands and shake my head. “I’m sorry?—”
Christian pulls my hands from my face. “Nova, you’re forgiven.
” He rests his hands on my shoulders. “ Did I want to shake some sense into you before you left? Yes, of course I did. But you needed to make your own mistakes. You needed to become your own person. Who God made you to be, not who Kent Price wanted you to be.”
I hang my head and roll my lips between my teeth. “Who I was in Paris was not the woman God created me to be.” Hugging my arms around my middle, I continue. “You were right about everything. And I hated that you were.”
Chris motions for me to sit, and we both plop down on the couch. “Believe it or not, Dad has always had our best interests at heart.”
I laugh sardonically. “Dad doesn’t have a heart.”
Chris steeples his fingers beneath his chin and looks away from me. “Dad is sick.” He drops his hands and faces me. “Did you know that?”
My heart sinks. “I had a feeling. When I saw him…”
Christian’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline as he cuts me off. “You saw Dad?”
“Yep. I went to the house to try and make amends. When he came to the door, Dad told me I had no home with him and he had no daughter.” I dismissively wave my hand as if Dad’s words don’t continually cut me to the bone.
“He’s been acting strangely, but he never mentioned seeing you.” More to himself than me, he says, “That would explain his even worse mood.” His eyes bore into mine. “I was really hoping you’d return at least one of my phone calls. I tried telling you about his kidney disease so many times.”
I wince. “How bad is it?”
“Well, he’s on the edge of needing dialysis or a kidney transplant. And neither of those options have any guarantees.”
I say, “So you’ve been dealing with this mostly alone. I assume Mom has done the minimum to shoulder the burden.”
Chris scoffs. “Yeah, I shouldn’t be surprised though.”
“Honestly, I’m shocked she hasn’t mentioned it yet.
I know her and Dad have far from a healthy marriage, but that’s no small thing.
” My mind wanders back to our time with Trevor, and I clench my hands into fists.
“I’m guessing you either haven’t talked to Mom in over a week or she hasn’t told you I’ve come home. ”
“We’ve texted a few times, but she hasn’t mentioned it.” He looks up at the ceiling, then back at me. “She’s never been good at facing hard things head-on.”
I blow out a puff of air. “No she’s not.”
We’re silent for a long beat. I contemplate opening the new can of worms with our mom but before I can, Chris leans forward and says, “I think she’s having an affair.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’m afraid of that too.” Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt even though it’s something she doesn’t deserve, I add, “Maybe it’s a way to distract herself from reality.”
Christian’s brow furrows and he grits his jaw. “That’s no excuse.”
“No, it’s not,” I quickly agree. Feeling a bit like Mom, I wave my hand in the air and change back to the original subject. “I’m sorry you’ve been facing this on your own. I should have answered your calls. There’s no excuse. I was so selfish.”
“You were,” Chris agrees, and he might as well have plunged a well-deserved dagger into my chest. “I’m sure that’s something else that’s keeping Dad from moving on and forgiving you.”
“Yeah.” My voice cracks.
I suspected he didn’t tell Chris he saw me since my brother would have shown up the minute he knew where I was.
Guilt crashes over me anew, as if I haven’t regretted the decision to run away every minute since realizing my mistake four years too late.
My chest tightens, my breathing quickens, and I can’t draw in a full breath.
I curl my nails into my palms, attempting to ground myself to this moment.
This is not where I want to slip out of reality.
If I could just cry, it would release this coiled tension in my heart.
I close my eyes, fighting against my lightheadedness.
After a deep breath, I open my eyes and look around, trying to find anything to ground me to reality.
Chris slips his arm around my shoulders. A picture of calm. Completely unaware of the battle waging as the numbness subsides.
If I’ve become a master at anything in my life, it’s hiding my emotions from the world.
With practiced smiles, I conceal the crumbling pieces of myself.
But as I’m here with my brother, who has forgiven me and been one of my safe places, my defenses crack, and my shattered pieces reveal themselves in every ragged breath I take.
I draw in deep breath after deep breath.
Exhaustion from trying to stay strong has black edging around my vision, but I fight it back when I hear a distant, deep voice ask, “What’s going on?”
My brother’s arm is no longer around me as I’m scooped into different arms and cradled against a warm chest.
My brother’s and Holt’s voices sound around me, but I can’t make out anything over the roaring in my head.
Other voices swirl into the conversation, but my mind can’t process anything they’re saying.
All I understand is the warm comfort I feel while wrapped in these strong arms. The safety I feel as the arms tighten around me.
The familiar scent of pinewood, fire, and leather helps calm me enough to breathe easier.
I’m so comfortable, in fact, that I allow the edging darkness to suck me under.