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I choose one of the Regencies first. The writing is great, and the plot has me sucked in almost immediately. But by chapter three, somehow the rakish duke starts reminding me of Brody. The more he and the plucky heroine verbally spar back and forth, the more I find myself picturing Brody’s face and voice during the dialogue scenes.
“Gah!” I cry out when the hero finally grabs the heroine in his arms and devours her mouth. I throw the book across the room like it’s on fire and grab the next book of the top of the stack on my nightstand. Half an hour later, it’s the strong, capable Montana rancher who starts to take on Brody’s face. I toss that one down, too. Ugh, this isridiculous.
I’ve always loved stories of all kinds. I was always inventing them in my head when I was a little kid. Books have always been my refuge. When I was younger, I even wanted to be a writer myself. In high school, I had plans to go to college for creative writing. Brody and I even talked about it. We’d put ourselves through school together. I’d be a famous author someday. I’d write stories that gave people an escape from reality. Books that gave people hope.
But that’s not what happened, of course. I don’t have an interesting enough life to be a writer. They always say write what you know, right? But the life I have now wouldn’t inspire anyone. And the everlasting, book-worthy romance story for the ages? The love that I thought would never die? Well, I don’t have that anymore, either. My life is hardly the stuff of a romance novel. I’m nobody’s heroine. I’m not even Aurora anymore. I’m just Rory.
Brody isn’t Brody anymore, either. He’s Rogue.
And Rogue fucking hates me.
By late afternoon,I’ve blown through the royal romance (thankfully, the hero of that one doesn’t remind me too much of Brody) and I’m about a tenth of the way through the Stephen King one, an alternate-universe book about the Kennedy assassination. It feels like my butt is starting to form a permanent indentation in the mattress. Not only that, but I’m getting antsy from all this inactivity.
It’s time to face the fact that I need to make some decisions about how long I’m going to stay here in Ironwood, and whether I should accept my father’s offer of a job.
On the one hand, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know the first thing about corporate real estate. I don’t even know what he wants me to do.
On the other, if I don’t stick around, this might be the last chance I ever have to really spend any time with him. Dad and I haven’t been close for years. But do I really want to close the door on our relationship? Do I really want to just walk away from him when he needs me?
Does he need me, though? Is this just an ego thing for him?
And can I handle actually moving back to my childhood home? The home where he now lives with his second wife? If I do, how can I possibly keep lying to my mom about this? It was one thing to make up a story to cover up a quick visit here. But how would I explain being gone for months?
As if on cue, a text message lights up my phone. It’s my mom.
How is the training going? Texting bc I don’t want to interrupt you at work.
Ugh.The guilt washes over me like a wave. Gulping, I grab my phone and type a quick answer:
Good. But yeah, in the middle of a meeting. Long days right now. I’ll call soon! Love you!
Tossingmy phone back on the bed, I grimace at the lie I’ve just told. I hate this, honestly. Part of me feels like maybe I should have just told her from the beginning that I was coming down here to pay Dad a visit. But now it’s too late. If I tell her where I am now, she’ll be hurt that I’m here, and also hurt that I lied to her.
Shit. I haven’t felt this pulled between my parents since… well, since ever. Back in high school, when Brody and I first got together, Mom liked him a lot, and Dad didn’t care for him much. But Dad was too preoccupied with work to spend a lot of time focusing on my personal life, so my parents hadn’t really been at odds about it.
Later, when Brody and I ran off and got married without telling anyone about it first… Well, predictably, my parents were not happy. Dad especially kind of blew his stack. He kept telling me we were too young, and too different to be compatible. But Mom reminded him that they, too, had been from different worlds — though in their case, it was Dad who was from the rich family, and mom from the poor one. He called her a silly romantic, but he kind of let it go after that.
But then, my mom found out about my dad’s affair.
And around the same time, the unthinkable happened between me and Brody.
I betrayed him.
Not intentionally. But I knew that wouldn’t matter, in the end. I knew he’d be destroyed if he found out what I had done. So, stupidly, I kept it from him. I hoped against hope that maybe I could just forget it. Push it all away, like if I just stopped thinking about it, it could be like it had never occurred. And things could go back to normal
I couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. It wouldn’t leave me alone.
And then, after that, Brody found out in the worst possible way.
I didn’t tell my mom what happened at the time, either. She was going through too much in her own life. I didn’t want to add to her troubles. Then later, when Brody and I broke up, I gave her a version of the truth that hid most of the details, to spare her the heartbreak of learning the full extent of what was lost. It just seemed like that was the best way to protect everyone from as much hurt as possible.
To this day, I’ve never told a single soul the whole story. Not even my mom. Certainly not my father. And definitely not Brody. It’s too late for the truth, anyway. At this point, there’s nothing it would change. It would just rip open old wounds.
The reason I decided not to tell my mom that I came to Ironwood was about protecting her, too. But now, I realize I’ve set myself up in an impossible situation if I decide stay and take the job at RJW.
“Gah!” I blurt, throwing my hands in the air. I hate this. I’m so sick of getting myself backed into corners I can’t figure out how to get out of. It’s the story of my damn life.
And not the kind of story that would make a good book. It’s too pathetic.
