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That had been his worst day. A day when every regret for every stupid thing he’d ever done and every weak or impulsive decision

he’d ever made came home to roost. He’d had to acknowledge that he really was going to lose her. It became impossible to deny

that any longer, watching her frail, disappearing body lift briefly off the sheets with each agonizing, assisted breath. Watching

the life disappear from her eyes more and more each time she opened them between restless naps.

That day he’d finally felt the full force of the guilt he’d been burying or swallowing or justifying for most of his life.

How could he not think of his mom and her ragged breaths, her fading eyes, and remember how he’d found excuses to stay out late so he wouldn’t have to be inconvenienced by how sad her

suffering made him?

And then once that knife of shame and regret was in his gut, how could he resist twisting it until he finally acknowledged

that he’d been lying to himself for years? He’d convinced himself he’d left the way he did to make things easier for Addie,

but the truth was, he’d been in self-preservation mode then too. He’d run rather than face her suffering too.

And for months he’d walked the same path with Wray.

Sure, he was there physically. He sat with her through treatments and held her hair back when chemo made her sick.

He learned how to tie her head scarf the way she liked it when the hair was gone and she didn’t have the strength to lift her arms to tie it herself.

But through it all, he’d also talked about the future and refused to acknowledge she might not be there for it.

And maybe that would have been what some people needed him to be in that situation, but it wasn’t what Wray needed. It wasn’t what she wanted.

Wes hated that it had taken the pain of losing yet another woman he loved for him to finally realize he hadn’t even tried

to be the man any of them needed him to be.

Months prior, Wray had told him it was time. She was going to file for divorce and do an interview—something high profile

but kind. Her heart was set on Brynn, but Wes thought that was a mistake. He thought the entire idea was a mistake. It was

easy to see now that he was being selfish, but he had to believe—he did believe—it wasn’t all about him. He didn’t want her subjected to the scrutiny. An in-depth interview—even with a friendly

face—in which she explained the nature of their marriage and carefully constructed the image of Wes as blameless, as she insisted

she wanted to so he could still pursue his political aspirations, would be taxing at best. Disastrous at worst. And she needed

to save her strength to fight and recover.

Because she was going to recover, he knew. He just knew it. And then, on that day—his worst day—he finally understood that

she wasn’t.

“That’s what Wray wanted?” Addie asked softly. “The divorce, I mean.”

“That’s what Wray wanted.” He slipped his feet off the far side of the bed and leaned over, staring at them.

“That’s what she had wanted for a while, but I refused.

I think, as much as anything, I didn’t want her to do it for me.

I think I thought she was freeing me up for whatever came next.

Making sure I wasn’t portrayed as the bad guy.

Making sure I could still get elected. And yeah, that was probably all part of it.

But it didn’t occur to me that maybe she didn’t want her life to end while she was living a lie.

Not until the day I took her to the hospital for the last time.

And so that was the day I filed for divorce.

I wanted her to be free of the lie. Then the rest would be hers to do with as she pleased.

” He looked over his shoulder to Addie. “It didn’t occur to me that I’d be here at some point.

That she would die before she had a chance to define how she would be remembered. And it certainly never occurred

to me that I’d keep pushing or getting pushed—I don’t even know the difference anymore—toward the presidency, and that with

Wray gone, the compass would just spin and spin.”

Addie stood from the chair and joined him on the side of the bed. “Scoot,” she instructed him, and he scooted to the top of

the bed while she remained nearly at the foot. Wes turned toward her and propped his knee up on the bed between them, duplicating

the position he’d adopted as they talked in the truck earlier.

This is nice.

The words were jangling around in his chest like an errant pinball, desperate to escape the endless bouncing, bouncing, bouncing

against the sides, never scoring a single point. That was all he wanted to say. That it was nice to be spending time with

her again. That it was nice to be talking to her again. It was nice to spend time with someone he trusted, despite the fact

that he now knew his personal assistant and his barber and the attendant at the Rayburn Building parking garage better than

he knew the woman he had just told all the untellable things to.

But everything in him was on high alert, cautioning him not to say the words, no matter how harmless they seemed to him.

“How’s your dad?” He hadn’t meant to change the subject so abruptly, but he needed to say something that wouldn’t make her super aware of how much he’d missed her. “I mean... he’s still around, right?”

“Oh yes. He’s the mayor, in fact. He hasn’t changed much at all, really. Except he seems older every time I look at him, even

if I can’t pinpoint any differences.”

“Is he still practicing medicine?”

Addie nodded and placed her palms on the bed behind her, leaning back. “I don’t think he feels like he has much choice. He’s

still the only doctor in town.”

Once he and Wray had begun talking about home, there was no other name that came up in Wes’s memories and regrets as often

as Doc Atwater’s. Apart from Doc Atwater’s daughter’s, of course. The thought that he may have the opportunity to speak with

him and apologize for breaking his promise to always take care of their girl both terrified him and filled him with gratitude.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad, by the way. His death, I mean.”

“Were you?” Wes picked up his new gloves from the center of the bed and ran his finger along the stitching. “It would be perfectly

understandable if you weren’t.”

They had to talk about it, right? When he’d decided to come to Adelaide Springs, yes, he’d been hoping to talk to Sebastian Sudworth

(he had to talk to Sebastian Sudworth—there was no plan B), but he knew Jo was right. She’d never encouraged Wes to just show up,

and the fact that he had, if that was really the reason why, was absurd. Of course Sebastian wasn’t in town. It was absurd to think—the odds were astronomical, probably—that he would actually catch him here

and be able to walk up to him on Main Street and say, “I’m Senator Wesley Hobbes. You know, the guy who deserted most of the

people you know and love. Can I buy you a cup of coffee and fill you in on a really big favor I’m hoping you’ll do for me?”

He’d known when he made the decision to come—though, really, could he call it a “decision” since he’d sort of just told a

bunch of lies and ended up on a plane?—that it wasn’t going to be easy. That it might not work. That Sebastian might not be

here. That he probably wouldn’t be. Wes had known that he had enough clout to pick up the phone and get Sebastian Sudworth

on the line.

So why had he come?

Addie rested her cheek on her shoulder and met his eyes. “To be honest I didn’t really care one way or another. But that’s not the sentiment Emily Post advises us to pass along in our condolences over the loss of one’s father.”

“Emily Post would be proud. Thank you.”

He’d come to begin making it right. He’d only hoped for an opportunity to begin . He would apologize as many times as he needed to, to as many people as he could. Not that an apology would make what he

had done okay. They might not even be willing to hear anything he had to say, but he had to start somewhere. He had to try.

And then someday...

Addie.

He never would have imagined that someday would be today . But here she was. Now. Talking with him. Sitting on a bed with him, however innocently. Smiling at him. No one would have imagined that. Sure, she was hating him at the same time, he was fairly confident, but there seemed to be an uneasy

and incredibly unexpected truce between them. At least for the moment. If he did nothing else right for the rest of his life,

he would not mess this up. He wouldn’t rush her or force her to talk about things she wasn’t ready to talk about. He wouldn’t even tell

her how nice it was just to be in the same room with her again. Yep, if he could just prevent himself from saying stupid things,

then they’d have a chance to talk about important things eventually. He was sure of it.

That’s all you have to do, Wes. Don’t say stupid things.

“And I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

She rose up slowly from her relaxed, comfortable position that had helped lull him into a false belief it was safe for him

to open his mouth. “How do you know about Joel?”

Well, okay, then. If he was being honest, he’d made it longer than he thought he would without saying stupid things.

“I don’t. I mean, I do. Obviously. But all I know is that he passed away.”

She stood from the bed and returned to the chair, but she didn’t sit down. She just stood behind it and gripped the chipped wood so hard her knuckles turned white. “And how do you know that?”

He lied for a living. All politicians lied for a living. And that wasn’t to say they were all corrupt or evil or self-serving

monsters. Some of them—and Wes liked to believe he was among the illustrious number—actually did all they could to make the

world a little bit better, one bill or vote or initiative at a time. No matter why he had gotten into politics in the first