I’m supposed to be past this.
After Charli, I swore I’d never get tangled up in anyone’s emotional bullshit again.
Yet here I am. Tossing and turning like a man turned inside out.
It tears me up, her leaving without fixing what went wrong. I’m asking for a way out of the unfixable.
Nothing outshines the infinite reasons why we can’t work.
Hurting her like this feels cruel but necessary.
We had to pull back before crash-landing.
Clee, she’s so young. She has so much life to figure out. So much future.
Why the hell would she ever settle for a man she’ll regret?
A man who hasn’t stopped wrestling with demons since the day the mother of his child walked out?
I must have a type, and they’re always trouble.
Cleo Blackthorn was just a different kind, plain and clear and devastating.
Why should I let Kit get her hopes up that we’ll ever be more than a two-person family?
I roll over again, snarling and staring at the empty space where she used to lie. I must be kidding myself about hearing her breathing.
No, just the wind and the house settling. A branch I need to get trimmed scraping underneath the window.
And unlike Charli, she isn’talltrouble, and that’s the entire fucking problem.
The next fewdays are grim.
We do our final checks. She talks through her tentative deal with the museum.
We get everything prepped and ready for the official move to the big city. We avoid face-eating emotions.
Cleo stays busy on the phone or hunkered over her laptop, idly painting with Kit in the evenings. Clearly trying to take her mind off stress.
I make my own arrangements and dig deeper into Black Talon. There’s no sign they have any organized presence in the US, but that didn’t stop them before.
No guarantee Fairfax won’t find out what we’re up to either. I want to be as certain as possible that even if he does figure it out, there’ll be no way he can get to her.
The whole time, Cleo barely speaks to me unless it’s straight business.
I get it. I really do, and in many ways it’s the most painless option.
Doesn’t stop that stabbing sensation in my chest or the longing looks at a woman who means the end too soon.
I’ve become a softie before I’m forty and it’s fucking disgusting.
“Dad.” Kit pushes past me to peel an orange while I’m cooking. I’ve spent more time breaking out elaborate old favorites the past two days.
Fried chicken with au gratin potatoes drenched in cream. Lobster étouffée. Shepherd’s pie with lamb braised to perfection.
Helps me clear my head and shut the guilt up in my gut for five whole minutes. If I’m destined to piss off everyone in this household, at least I’ll send them away well-fed.
“You packed?” I ask her.
