Page 69 of Mister Cowboy
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Brecken
He’d watched her leave. Known she was gone. Felt her absence down to his bones. What the hell had he done?
He listened intently to the tick of the second hand on his watch, waiting for the moment he’d feel like he’d done the right thing. It didn’t come. Pushing back from his desk, he slammed his laptop shut and grabbed his coat.
“Nadia.” Her name tasted like gravel in his mouth.
She looked up from her desk with an expression that said she knew she was in trouble.
“Have you made an appointment with the doctor yet?”
Guilt crossed over her face, and she pushed her lips out in a pout then drew them in and opened her mouth as if to speak.
He cut her off, completely uninterested in whatever excuse she had. “Make the appointment. Today. You can’t just blow this off. I’ll be working from home. Send anything urgent to my cell.”
She nodded.
“And the stunt you pulled with January?” His tone left no room for doubt. “Pull that shit again, and I’ll fire you.”
He walked away without waiting for her response.
* * *
Brecken turnedthe journal over in his hand, seriously considering opening it and devouring each word for answers about what he should do. Fitting that, in his darkest moment, he’d finally turned to the man he hated the most. He’d found his personal hell.
He slammed a fist down on the book, wishing he’d left the damn thing at January’s apartment last weekend, but he hadn’t been able to say no to her then when she’d looked up at him as if he were someone who deserved happiness and answers to the questions he sought. He doubted he would ever see that look from her again.
The hurt expression on her perfect face as she’d left was burned into his retinas. He’d just stood there. Just fucking stood there.
In the five days since January walked out of his office, his apartment had become his sanctuary, his hiding spot from Nadia and decisions he didn’t feel capable of making. Pressing silent on his cell, he sent Tina’s third call to voice mail—just like the others. He was in no shape to talk to her or anyone else. He’d tackled the pile of work that came in each day with a singular focus to drown out the rest of the world, but if it couldn’t be handled via email or text, then he wasn’t interested. Tipping back the amber liquid, he welcomed the burn of the first drink as it coated his insides.
He opened the journal, flipping through the pages for a second before he stopped on a random page. With a deep breath, he started reading, hoping like hell there was something to be learned from re-opening the wounds he’d bandaged years ago.
May 25, 2003.
Dear Son,
The night I found out Louisa was pregnant, I got good and drunk and stayed that way for a while. I wanted to blame her or just the whole world, but sometime during my bender, something became clear to me. It was no one’s fault but my own. Furthermore, why place blame when the outcome couldn’t be changed?
The decision we made, to live our lives like we would have had she not become pregnant, has haunted me every day since. Mostly because I believe it was naïve of us to think that was possible. We’d never been in love. Our relationship hadn’t been about that. I know that doesn’t make me sound like the most noble of men, but we were friends who were young and curious. I met your mother a week after Louisa and I had sex. I’d already bought a ring and planned on proposing before Louisa found out she was pregnant.
I momentarily considered asking Louisa to marry me instead and trying to put your mother out of my mind, but I was no more capable of forgetting your mother than I was of forgetting my own name. She owned my soul, and Louisa knew it.
Love,
Dad
Brecken tossedthe journal onto the floor, where it landed with athud.
He really was no better than his father. After everything he’d done, he’d found himself in the same situation as his father had years ago with an impossible decision. Love or responsibility?
His father had chosen love, which had ended with him losing everyone.
That left only one choice that made any sense.
Responsibility.
