Page 36 of Rock the Chardonnay

My mom is right. She and I are exactly the same. Why I let myself believe one weekend of good sex would change me is a thought distortion of epic proportions.

I glance up at him from where I cram balled-up mesh tights into a corner of my suitcase. “I have to go.”

“What? Why?” To his credit—probably because he’s an adult and not a man-child like so many other guys I’ve banged, my mom is right goddamn her—he doesn’t rush or crowd me. “If you don’t want pancakes—”

“I don’t want pancakes.” The futility of it all is overwhelming. I tug on my shoes and stuff my phone and charger into my handbag. I wrestle my suitcase from the bed and roll it into the living room. Through my tears, I can smell the breakfast he made. Fresh cut fruit looking like a bowl of fine jewelry. Veggie sausage patties, crisp and hot. A tower of golden brown pancakes and real maple syrup, the butter gleaming in a separate dish because he thought to take it out to soften. He hasn’t made breakfast. He’s made me a feast.

But I’m not a princess. I’m not perfect. At the end of the day, I am my mother’s daughter.

“I’m really sorry. I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

“What happened?” He follows me, still not crowding me, even though what I want is for him to hold me and kiss me and tell me my mom spews packs and packs of lies. But the problem is that what she said doesn’t ring like a lie inside of me. It smacks of cold, hard truth.

“You deserve better,” I say. I pick up my guitar, letting its weight ground me. “I’m sorry for everything. You’re wonderful. You’ll find someone who isn’t always halfway out the door.” Someone who can take time to appreciate the effort he puts into everything. Someone who can keep promises to him.

“At least let me drive you.”

“No. I’ll call a cab.”

Declan runs his hands through his hair. “There are no cabs. There’s one guy and half the time he’s too hungover to come when you call. He was at the beer and cider tents most of yesterday.”

“I’ll figure it out. Just let me go!” I practically scream, and that’s shitty for my voice. I’m such a fuck up.

This is why I can’t have nice things. Even when I want them so badly it aches.

I push open the door, feeling off balance, but I’ve done this before. I’ve walked blindly into the future with only my guitar in my hands and heartbreak songs tickling inside my brain.

To my luck, Ciaran is parked in the driveway, and has climbed halfway into his truck. For the first time in what feels like ages, he’s actually wearing a shirt, a light blue St. Olaf Fire Department polo. “Hey, Daughtry,” he calls.

“Can you give me a lift into town?”

Behind me, I feel Declan freeze in the doorway of the cottage. I know what I’m doing. It’s cruel, but necessary. He needs me to hurt him this way or he’ll come looking for me. And if he comes, I won’t be strong enough to let him go.

Then I’ll hurt him more.

Because that’s where my mom and I are different. I have the strength to release the men I love from the toxicity of me.

Ciaran glances between me and Declan then shrugs. “Sure. Hop in.”

I toss my bag and guitar case into the back seat and climb into the passenger side. I can’t look at Declan or the main house. This is it. This is why I never looked back.

Ciaran climbs into the driver’s seat. He takes one look at me and whistles, long and low. “Whatever happened, I’m glad it’s not my fault.” Then he turns the car down the driveway and I keep my gaze where it belongs.

The front windshield.

CHAPTER 19

Declan—two weeks later

“Dad.” Alex waves a hand in front of my face and I swat at it like a fly.

“Alex, I told you. I’m setting up my lesson plans.” Which I should have done ages ago, but Daughtry’s leaving hit me harder than a super flu. Her not responding to any of my texts or calls is the painful back to back whammy of getting norovirus and a broken leg at the same time. I’m an unmixed suspension of exhausted and heartbroken in a too-small test tube, but I still have to be a parent.

Joy.

“School starts tomorrow. You should be getting ready, too. Do you know where your backpack is? I’m not listening to fifteen minutes of you ransacking your room at seven thirty tomorrow morning when we need to leave.”

“I found it two days ago.” He taps on my skull. “Are you even processing in there?”

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