Page 40 of My Cowboy Salvation
“Hey. I know you’re pissed off, but don’t take your anger out on Dylan. Take it out on me. I’m to blame. Me alone.”
“No,” Dylan nearly shouts. “We both are to blame. And I’m sorry, Parker. I’m so, so sorry you had to find out like this.”
He turns his gaze to her, and his pain is clear. “When we sat there over coffee and you were telling me it wasn’t going to work out, and how I should find someone else, you didn’t think about being upfront and honest about the fact you and my dad were sleeping together? I thought we were friends, if nothing else.”
“We are friends.”
“Friends don’t fuck their friend’s dads, Dylan. And Dad? You know how I felt about her.” He stares so accusingly at me, and I really don’t have any excuse to offer him other than I’m a weak man who gave in to my baser urges, regardless of his feelings. “I thought we finally had a relationship. I could even see myself moving out here, maybe going to law school in Montana. What a joke. I’m out of here.” He turns before stopping to add, “I don’t want to see or talk to either of you ever again.”
He returns to his room. I squeeze Dylan’s hand. “Stay here,” I say, then head to my room to throw on a shirt to try to reason with my son. His bag is already packed and in his hand by the time I reach him, and he nearly shoves me out of the way as he heads to the stairs.
“Parker. It’s the middle of the night. Don’t go racing out of here right now. Please, son. At least stay until morning, when we can all sit down and talk about this reasonably.”
He’s already at the door, and he turns to give me one last disgusted glare. “Fuck you, Dad. I hope this… whatever it is, was worth it. Was worth losing your son.”
Then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him.
* * *
Dylan
It’s barelyseven by the time I reach the kitchen the next morning. No rest for the weary and all that. Traumatized or not, I still need to be at the ranch for Hope.
I can smell the rich aroma of the coffee, but the kitchen is cast in darkness. I flip on the light and nearly scream when I see Logan sitting at the table, fully dressed and sipping his coffee.
He’s been sitting here in the darkness? For how long?
Last night, after Parker’s departure, I could see the anguish and guilt on Logan’s face, and tried to reassure him that with time, Parker would get over his shock and might give him another chance to be in his life. But Logan wasn’t in a talking mood as he said roughly how sorry he was for the scene, but that I should get a good night's sleep. Then he left, shutting his door behind him.
“Morning. Have you been up long?” I ask as I head to the cabinet for a mug, trying to keep a sense of normalcy after what went down last night.
“Long enough. How did you sleep?” he asks.
“I’ve slept better.” I bring my coffee to the table to join him. “Have you heard from Parker?”
He shakes his head.
“Me either.” I sent Parker a couple of texts last night after he left, and I was alone again in my room, as well as a new one this morning, but I haven’t received a response.
Parker is my friend, and I’d like to think there are no secrets between us. But that’s also a bit of an overly optimistic fantasy of what friendship is. Because yes, I care a great deal for Parker and would like to share important things with him, but in any friendship, you choose what and when to discuss things. And yes, this thing with his dad is big and important… but right now, it’s also new, and it’s for Logan and me to figure out first. I shouldn’t feel bad because I wasn’t ready to talk about it with Parker, since I don’t know what it even is.
But I will always wish he had discovered our relationship under other circumstances. As for Logan, I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling. About his relationship with his son. With me.
“Hey,” I say softly, staring into his face that’s as achingly handsome as ever. His eyes, however, are having a hard time meeting mine. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened last night. Parker walking in like he did? As hard as that was for everyone, at least it’s finally out there in the open. And maybe we can start talking about what this”—I clarify, motioning between the two of us—“is.”
“It’s a mistake. That’s what it is, Dylan,” he says bluntly.
It’s like he’s slugged me in the stomach, something I know well how it feels, and I nearly bowl over as I try to staunch the pain, the loss of air from my lungs.
“We never should have started anything,” he continues, not seeming to notice how close to tears I am. “It was wrong of me to even look at you like I did. Hell, you’re only here because you’re running from one selfish asshole. You didn’t bet on getting mauled by another one. And what’s worse is I did it knowing full well what you meant to my son. That’s a betrayal he’s never going to get over.”
He’s saying so many things, so many wrong things, that I want to scream, but I try to keep calm and point out how wrong he is. “First, you’re nothing like Simon. You don’t take pleasure in hurting me, in controlling every little thing I do. You don’t make me feel like a possession to be pulled out and shown off to your friends.”
His face softens, and he starts to stretch his hand out to take mine. But something stops him, and he quickly pulls it back, wrapping it around his coffee cup instead.
Okay. That hurts. But I’m not yet finished. “Second, I genuinely care about your son. I always will. But I’m not in love with him. I don’t have anywhere near those feelings when it comes to him. Not like I have with you.”
There. The words are out there. Not exactly a profession of love, but an indication of the gravity of my feelings for him. That this thing between is us isn’t just sex. I’m feeling raw and vulnerable and desperately need to hear he has feelings for me, too. That I’m not just someone warming his bed.
