Page 53 of We Can Stay
But I can’t help it. The thought of her alone in that house with some creep potentially watching...
“Yes, that would be great. I’ll see you later?” The relief and gratitude in her voice soothes something raw inside me.
“See you later.”
After hanging up, I sit in the sudden quiet of my office. The computer screen glows with spreadsheets for the animal sanctuary—another project, another way to stay busy. The numbers blur together as I stare at them. Still short. Still need more donors. Still need to convince Lil to give me more time.
Sighing, I rub between my eyebrows, where a headache is forming. When did my dream project start feeling like just another obligation?
My phone rings, breaking into my thoughts. Ben’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, putting it on speaker so I can pretend to work while we talk.
“Hey, man. Do you have anyone you can recommend for some part-time hours over here? We’re understaffed.”
“Me too.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears.
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” I lean back, the chair creaking under my weight. “Sorry.”
“You good?”
“What do you mean?” I deflect, dropping my hands from where I’d been rubbing my temples.
“It’s a pretty straightforward question.” His voice carries that particular brand of brotherly concern that always sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m dealing with a lot,” I snap. “The owner of the land I’ve been looking at wants the money sooner—something she just dropped on me yesterday.”
“Can you do that?”
“No... Well, maybe. I don’t know.” The words tumble out, revealing more than I intended.
“You know, Sebastian, it won’t be the end of the world if you need to pause this project.”
The suggestion hits like a physical blow. How can he even suggest that? He knows how long I’ve been planning this. He knows what it means to me.
Or does he? When’s the last time we really talked about anything beyond surface level?
“Seriously?” The word comes out sharp enough to cut.
“What?”
“You know how long I’ve been planning this. Yes, Ben, of course postponing it matters. I need to?—”
“You don’t need to do anything, Sebastian, and frankly, you’re obsessed with this project. Obsessed.”
Heat floods my face. Because he’s right. I am obsessed. Obsessed with staying busy. Obsessed with having a purpose beyond the crushing routine of work-sleep-work. Obsessed with proving that I’m more than just the guy whose wife left because he couldn’t fix her depression no matter how hard he tried.
“Is this why you called me up? Just to criticize me?”
“No. I called you to invite you to a cookout at my house tomorrow. I already knew you wouldn’t come, but I figured, what the hell? I should extend the invite anyway. Make you know that I still care.”
The words sting because they’re true. How many invitations have I turned down? How many times have I chosen work over family, projects over people?
Just like I did with Jessica.
“I need to go,” I mutter, the parallel too painful to examine. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I just—I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the invite. I’m sorry I can’t make it.”
