Page 39 of For Wrath and Redemption
Mabel says the last part playfully, and Sav snorts out a laugh that elicits a small smile from me.
“Thanks, Mabes.”
Mabel giggles. “Anyway, Sav is right. You have to forgive yourself. Even if they can’t.”
I force a tight smile. “Sure.” My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat again. “Thanks.”
“Sometimes you have to cut away the worn-down parts of yourself,” Mabel says. “The shit weighing you down. You’ve got to shed it so you can move forward.”
I force a swallow and let myself ask a question that terrifies me. Something that’s worried me for years. “What if there’s nothing left?”
Sav squeezes my hand one more time. “You have to have faith that you’ll grow back better.”
Thankfully, I don’t have to respond because the door opens, and Hammond pops in to let them know it’s time to head to the stage. Sav and Mabel both leave me with smiles, and when they disappear into the hallway, I drop my head to the table and finally let the tears free.
Forgive yourself, even if they can’t.
Have faith that you’ll grow back better.
Simple sentences for insurmountable tasks. Forgive myself for ruining lives? Grow back better?
I can’t. I won’t.
I don’t deserve it.
I get back to the suite before the band.
I need a hot bath and a glass of wine, and I don’t need to deal with Jonah Hendrix’s mood swings.
I can tell I’m on the verge of a tailspin. That familiar refractory feeling is creeping out of the recesses of my mind, making my pulse spike and my stomach roil. I don’t want to acknowledge it. It would mean failure. It would mean erasing all the progress I’ve made, and I can’t accept that.
I sent a text to José after I finished taking photos and told him to let me know when they were heading back to the hotel, and then I preordered a glass of red wine from the guest services concierge. As soon as I’m in the suite, I take my wine straight to the bathroom. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, use the hotel provided bubble bath,and do my best to clear my head as I sink to my chin in the luxury soaker tub.
I last five minutes before I’m mentally going over Jonah’s calendar, and then I’m hauling myself out of the tub so I can get some work done on the MixMosaic account. Someday, I will learn how to relax without feeling guilty again.
I put on pajamas and throw my hair up into a towel, then crawl onto my bed with my laptop. I really wish I could be in the office to at least brainstorm with the team, but Brandt’s been leaving comments on the shared drive for me. It will have to do while I’m stuck in Europe traipsing after Conrad’s son.
Conrad.
I’ve only spoken to him once since I left New York. The time difference has made it difficult to talk on the phone, and he’s not the best texter, so all my messages have received monosyllabic responses and the occasional emoji. It’s cute when he sends emojis. I smile. Then I frown.
I wonder how he’d feel if he knew how close I’ve been to his son’s penis. I wince. Or if he knew how hard it was not to look.
I shake my head and grab my phone. Conrad likely isn’t working right now, and it would be nice to hear his voice. When my attempted video chat doesn’t go through, I try a regular call. He answers on the third ring, his voice booming through the receiver against a backdrop of muffled conversation and classical music.
“Conrad Henderson.”
“Hi! It’s me.”
“Ms. Davis.” He clears his throat, and I hear something like cutlery clinking in the background. “What can I do for you? How is the job going?”
My smile dulls.
Ms. Davis?
How isthe jobgoing?
I haven’t spoken to him in days, but he sounds less than thrilled to hear from me. Andthe job? As inhis son?
