Page 75 of Whiskey Throttle
“He won’t.”
I pause. The realization is more horrible than I want to acknowledge. Something I’ve shoved away every time it’s come up.
“He’ll hate me.”
It fucking kills me to admit the truth. Saying it out loud makes my stomach turn to stone. Makes me sweat. As if he’s here and able to walk right in and catch up. My heart thunders away, hammering into my temples.
She looks up sharply, mouth parts to argue, but stops. Because we both know it’s true. If there’s a cost to this, I’m the one to pay it. And I’d do it again. For her. For this. But only if we last.
I can’t lose him.
Can’t lose her.
I’d be gutted.
“Are we being selfish?”
Her question hangs between us. Stiff and real. My instinct is to say yes. The decision was made every time we texted. Showed up at her tennis club, challenged her to a match, and chased after her in the parking lot. Then the gallery, the flirting, the kissing, and the hand job in the back garden.
Yes.
I selfishly pursued her. Not as a conquest like other girls, but as a challenge to myself, because I felt worthy of someone at her level. Wanted her to see me as an equal in a sense. To steal from her regalness forged from steel nerves. Hard fought and rightfully earned by society’s standards. Not inherited by legacy and name, such as mine.
“It’s hard to answer.”
It’s all I can say.
All I want to say.
Admitting I was selfish is too volatile at this moment. A crushing confession to the delicate situation, this is. If I admit to it, we’ll be over, and she’ll be out of here. Calling for the car service she had so easily mentioned in the range hours ago.
She stiffens when I say it. The seam that sticks our bodies together suddenly breaks open when she shifts away. I scramble to stop this from spiraling out of control. From ending too quickly, as I have done all weekend long.
“Did Dom ask you if he could date that profiler? Did he call you to talk it over? Tell you how they met and get your permission?”
Her mouth settles into a deep frown. We all know Dom does whatever the hell he wants with no regard for others. Putting this all back on him is a cheap shot. But I’m desperate to keep her here.
“He had tons of chances to do so. Hell, he could have even brought her to the gallery opening. Made introductions or at least made it official by being seen with her. The papers would have soaked it up. But he didn’t. Because Dom doesn’t give a shit.”
My hand tightens around her shoulder, drawing her body back into mine. She collapses into me. My excuses are working, even if I feel like an asshole for blaming him.
“Why should he be happy and not you? Haven’t you earned this, Babs? Don’t you deserve the support, connection, and care that he’s getting from his girlfriend?”
She’s listening. Soaking in every word, yet looking off in the distance. Here with me and somewhere else at the same time. It’s not often that she leaves herself this unguarded, but it happened in the lounge the night she cried. I guess it’s the memories I’ll never know about that built her into a woman I madly respect.
She nibbles on her lower lip. My words keep seeping into her consciousness. Doing something. Doing enough to keep her still and silent.
“It’s hard putting myself first.”
It’s an honest admission.
One might think that her whole life is lived for herself. Yet, I know it’s for appearances. It’s to fill time and loneliness with charitable activities, bringing her the love and attention that every person needs. It’s the only place she can feel needed. No one in her family needs her anymore. That is clear.
“I’d imagine it is.”
She speaks from places that I can only see from the outside. Places I haven’t been, and by the looks of it, I don’t want to go there.
Divorce is ugly.
