The past and the present colliding until it’s hard to decipher what’s real. What pain came from which heartbreak in my cosmic joke of a life.
This is why I let her go.
I didn’t have a choice.
I’m no damn good for her, and staring at the mess of bottles I’ve left like some demented raccoon proves that.
“Not my best move, Margot. I’ll admit that. But I didn’t have a choice,” I growl into the silence.
“You always had a choice, Ethan. Everyone does.”
I set my jaw tight.
“My life is a flaming wreck. All I can bring her is trouble, and she doesn’t deserve that.”
To my surprise, Margot rolls her eyes and picks up the nearly empty bottle of bourbon from the floor next to my armchair.
“Right,” she says doubtfully. “Because what you’re doing right now—this—this is totallysorting it out. Hey, maybe if you drink enough, Cooper will just drop his lawsuit and send us a Christmas card!”
“Beating his ass will help. Legally,” I add reluctantly.
“Cut the crap, Big Brother.” She aims one long blue nail at me. “Cooper Daley hasnothingto do with your pity parade or the reason you smashed up poor Hattie.”
“I was trying to save her!”
“Oh my God. You still don’t get it.” Still not releasing the bottle, she digs an envelope out of her purse, slapping it down on the table between us. “You’re a moron, Ethan, brother or not. Hattie neverneededyou to save her from you.”
Before I can answer, she nods at the letter.
“Read it. If I can’t convince you to get your life together, maybe this will. Or maybe it’ll just send you into another conniption fit, who knows.” She throws me another disgusted look.
I see my name printed on top in perfectly neat handwriting I don’t recognize.
Margot takes a swig from the half-depleted bottle as she goes to find Ares’ leash. The screen door shuts behind her a minute later.
I’m all alone, a human volcano.
I want to go after Daley, but Margot storming in brings back everything I’ve tried to repress for so damn long.
The look on Hattie’s face when I finally left her—because she wouldn’t go. I told her to leave so many times and she still wouldn’t do it.
Fuck.
I slit the letter open, running my finger along the flap and grabbing the two pages inside. One page looks handwritten and the other, the one on top, is printed on expensive legal paper.
A quick, professional note from Jackie Wilkes authorizing the early release of a final letter from Gramps that was originally supposed to show up on my fifth month of marriage.
Shit.
For an entire minute, I don’t move, afraid to see whatever new scheme or lie he’s concocted.
If I tear it up right now, I’ll never have to know.
Even in death, the old man won’t fucking leave me alone.
But curiosity has me in a chokehold.
I toss Jackie’s letter aside and turn to Gramps’ note.
