Page 41 of Buried Dreams

“Bottle is fine,” she states, and I walk around and hand it to her.

“Would you like to sit?” I ask, and you could cut the tension with a knife. The air between us is electric, yet there is a huge elephant in the room.

“I think I need to sit,” she admits, walking around and sitting at the edge of the couch. Her hands are on her knees, with the bottle in both hands, as she looks at all the pictures I have of Saige and me, as well as a couple of pictures of my parents. “You’ve made a beautiful home,” she compliments. I can hear the heaviness of her voice at the end, the pain it must have taken to say it.

“Thank you,” I say, bringing the bottle to my lips, “it means a lot.” She takes a pull of her beer, and I’m jealous of a fucking beer bottle.

“So,” I say, sitting in front of her and not beside her, “you said you had questions.”

“I do,” she confirms, and I see her finger peeling off the label. “I want to know it all. What happened? When did it happen? Why didn’t you tell me? I want to know everything, really. I think I need that for me to move on, so we can both move on.”

I swallow down the lump that went from the pit of my stomach to my throat when the words sink in. What if I don’t want to move on, then what? Where will I… “I think we’ll start with the first question,” I say, and I don’t know why, but it’s going to be good to finally get it all out there. “They came to see me in the hospital. I had just gotten there and was yelling for you when Winston came in.” She listens to me. “Pretended to care, see if I was okay. He told me Waylon didn’t make it. He was crushed but then said he had to do what he needed to do to protect his brother and their family. I didn’t understand it at first. Until two weeks later when I went into work. Winston and his father came to see me, said they would like to take me out to lunch.” I shake my head. “I should have known something was happening, but I was still shaken up over what just happened. I was worried about you and how you would be healing. I was worried about Charlie, who was a ticking time bomb, and I was afraid I would wake up and he would be gone too. It was just too much. I think they knew my head wasn’t there. So they took me out to the golf course for lunch. Sat me down, said that I was like a brother to Waylon. Then said there was rumbling that people were going to try to say Waylon was drunk even though his tox report came back clean. They wanted to make sure I would be able to stand behind Waylon, since he would have done it for me. I was on the fence, not sure. They must have sensed it because then the promises came. They wanted me to take over the big project. Knew I was going to kill it. They told me all the right things. I would have my own team; it would be huge. But the biggest thing is that they would help me create my firm. Everleigh, you had to know the only thing I thought about was how it was going to help us,” I say, and she lifts a hand to wipe away the tears, breaking my heart.

“Like, you have to know that the only thing I thought about was you. Was us. Was the future for us, making sure you were taken care of.” I swallow down the lump. “They knew they had me on the hook, but it wasn’t good enough for them because then came the blackmail.” I laugh bitterly. “They would take away the contract they had with my father. The only contract he had. The only one that was keeping him afloat. They were already six months behind in payments, something I didn’t know, but if they took it away, chances are they were not going to fucking pay him, and he would have to close the doors.” The anger grips me exactly how it did that day. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him suffer because of me. So I told them I would do whatever they wanted. I would do it for Waylon because I want to believe he would do it for me.”

“He wouldn’t do shit for you,” she hisses. “He was the most self-centered asshole.”

“I know that now,” I admit, “but I did what I did, and I have to live with that. Coming home to you every single day, knowing I was hiding it from you, killed me inside. You have to know this. I wanted to tell you everything, but then again, I didn’t want it to touch you. I didn’t think it would blow up the way it did. I thought I was protecting you.”

“But what about you?” she asks and leans forward to put her beer bottle on the coffee table. “Who was going to protect you?”

“I didn’t care about me,” I admit. “After I lost you, I wanted to die. I begged to die.” She gasps and puts her hands in front of her mouth. “I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I knew you would be pissed at me, but I never thought you would leave me. I guess I had hoped it would all work out. I took the risk, and it was bigger than I thought it would be.” I look down, afraid to look into her eyes, but knowing I have to. I have to see them when I say it. “It will forever be the biggest regret of my life.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

EVERLEIGH

“I didn’t care about me.” His words feel like they are tormented. “After I lost you, I wanted to die. I begged to die.” I gasp at this information. Never, and I mean never, would I have thought that my big, strong, protector of a man would go down to that. “I couldn’t even look myself in the mirror. I knew you would be pissed at me, but I never thought you would leave me. I guess I had hoped that it would all work out. I took the risk, and it was bigger than I thought it would be.” I watch him go through the emotions that he should have gone through all those years ago, but now, sitting in front of him, I can see I wasn’t the only one who suffered from this. He did too; he suffered along with me. I may have blocked it out because it was easier for me to hate him, thinking he did it because he didn’t care about me. “It will forever be the biggest regret of my life.” His words feel like they are ripped from his soul.

“Thank you”—I feel my body shaking—“for finally being honest with me.” I can see the hurt on his face, and I hold up my hand. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean it…” I look up at the ceiling and use the back of my hand to wipe away the tears from my cheeks. “I thought it was easy for you.” It’s my turn to give him my side of it. “I thought you did all that, and you didn’t care that you were doing it.” He shakes his head furiously back and forth. His elbows go on his knees as he looks down at his shoes and then looks back up at me, and I can see his own tears in his eyes.

“Fuck, Everleigh.” He uses my name instead of baby, and it hurts. “It ate me up inside.”

“You should have told me, Brock,” I whisper. “You should have been honest with me.”

“I didn’t want it to touch you.” He runs one hand through his hair. “I didn’t want their hands on you. I wanted you as far away from them as I could get you.”

“But don’t you see,” I say, “they had you, and in return, they had me, and I had no idea.” I wait for it to sink in, wait for him to see it. “I needed to know what I was up against, and you took it away from me.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is so soft. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wish things were fucking different.”

“I do too,” I admit. “I do too.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but the oven beeps. He gets up and walks over to the kitchen, and I take a look around, seeing the home he created for him and his daughter. Little picture frames are scattered around the house. There are pieces of Saige everywhere. One of her sweaters is folded on the end of the couch, a couple of her notepads are in the middle of the coffee table. I suddenly wonder what kind of father he is. I suddenly want to know more, but I’m not sure my heart can take it.

“Did you still want to stay for dinner?” he asks, and my head turns from the notepads on the table to him standing in the middle of the kitchen, taking off an oven mitt.

“I do,” I confirm, getting up. “If that is okay with you, that is.” I walk over to the island and stand with it between us. “I could also leave if you don’t want me here.”

I wait with almost bated breath for him to answer me. “I would like nothing more than to have dinner with you.” He stares into my eyes as he says the words.

“Good.” I try not to smile, but it fills my face anyway. “What can I do to help?”

“Sit down”—he motions with his head to one of the stools—“and relax.”

“That I think I can do.” I turn back and walk to the table to grab our beers before heading over to the kitchen. I walk around the island to hand him his beer. He reaches up for it and gives me a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he says, and I can feel the electricity in the room between us. It’s always been there. My question is, will it always be there? He stares at me longer than he should, yet not long enough for my liking.

I pull out the stool and sit on it. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

---