Page 119 of Full Mountie

I shove out of bed and grab my phone. Time to try to get ahold of him again. And if he’s still on radio silence, my next text is going to be filled with motherfucking expletives.

40

Hugh

It’s nearlyfour in the morning and I officially give up on sleep.

The flight back to Ottawa was torturous.

I tried hard to ignore all the tangled-up feelings I’m reluctant—terrified, more like—to name. But there was nothing life or death going on to distract me, and the hole in my heart kept getting bigger and more jagged with each passing hour.

It’s impossible to keep from replaying in my mind how Lachlan and Beth gazed at each other all weekend—like they’re deeply in love.

Then there was the dancing.

It was a fucking mistake to try and make up for not dancing together at the wedding with a private dance at the cabin. That just jabbed a stake in my heart in a different way, reminding me that I’ve re-closeted myself in a whole new way with this relationship.

It’s one thing to want to dance with Lachlan. It’s another to wish the three of us could dance together.

But, there’s nothing that could provide enough cover for any of that.

A real relationship between three people close to the prime minister? That’s a pipe dream. A huge, unnecessary complication.

Lachlan would never hear of it. Because the reality of the world is, three’s an unacceptable crowd as far as marriage and society are concerned. And it’s this truth that erases any reservations I have about my decision to leave.

Even with my emotional turmoil, I can at least admit to myself, marriage is where things are heading for Lachlan and Beth, one way or another.

It’s what they both want, and this weekend underlined that in an undeniable way.

When I finally got home, I hit the sack ridiculously early because I’m heavy in denial and avoidance, and sleep seemed like the best option.

Despite the physical exhaustion from the last twenty-four hours, my mind refuses to rest.

I wander out to the kitchen to make coffee, and I look around my apartment.

It’s fucking stark.

It didn’t bother me before. Probably since I haven’t spent much time here.

I let myself get too comfortable in the fantasy of something else. In the fantasy that this place might be temporary and it didn’t matter if I have a couch or a TV

I should have known better. Should have kept my distance from temptation.

It was all a colossal mistake.

My phone sits on the kitchen counter, right where I tossed it when I got home last night. I eye it like it’s a rattle snake ready to strike, but I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

I switch the phone from airplane mode and set it back down while I brew a cup of coffee.

Notifications start to pop up everywhere.

Voicemail, missed calls, text messages, E-mail. Hell, if I had a Facebook account, I’m sure that would be screaming at me, too.

The guilt slams back into me like a freight train.

I decide to start with the text messages because I know I can’t handle hearing their voices.

Lachlan: WTF man?

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