Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Still, she couldn’t fucking fix me.
It wasn’t her place.
Hattie didn’t need to be saddled with an impossible task—and for what in return?
All my broken pieces magically pulling themselves back together?
My humanity healing enough to swallow my pride, my hurt, my bullshit, and admit what turns my heart into bloody hamburger?
Admit that my crazy ass loves her?
“It’s for the best. You won’t understand, but you have to accept it.” I hear the words as they land, knowing they’re just as lame as I think.
“Best for who?” Margot demands. “Because it sure as hell isn’t Hattie and I’m not sure it’s you. Do you really think giving her the store made her happy, Ethan? Be honest. This is Hattie we’re talking about.”
I snort again.
If it was anyone but Margot, I might be able to lie to her face.
“No,” I clip.
“No,” she repeats loudly. “That’s my point. And you went and did it anyway. You tried to kick her out during a storm. Fucking hell, Ethan.”
“I left first,” I grind out, dragging a hand over my face.
That doesn’t make it a damn bit better.
Margot keeps glaring with a hellfire I’ve never seen on her face before. Or have I?
For a second, she looks so much like Gramps that it freaks me out.
He’d give plenty of other people that look when they disappointed him or pissed him off—but for me, I only saw it once.
Just once.
The day he peeled me off the floor after Taylor died.
My soul feels bruised.
The past and the present colliding until it’s hard to decipher what’s real. What pain came from which heartbreak in my cosmic joke of a life.
This is why I let her go.
I didn’t have a choice.
I’m no damn good for her, and staring at the mess of bottles I’ve left like some demented raccoon proves that.
“Not my best move, Margot. I’ll admit that. But I didn’t have a choice,” I growl into the silence.
“You always had a choice, Ethan. Everyone does.”
I set my jaw tight.
“My life is a flaming wreck. All I can bring her is trouble, and she doesn’t deserve that.”
To my surprise, Margot rolls her eyes and picks up the nearly empty bottle of bourbon from the floor next to my armchair.
“Right,” she says doubtfully. “Because what you’re doing right now—this—this is totally sorting it out. Hey, maybe if you drink enough, Cooper will just drop his lawsuit and send us a Christmas card!”
“Beating his ass will help. Legally,” I add reluctantly.
“Cut the crap, Big Brother.” She aims one long blue nail at me. “Cooper Daley has nothing to do with your pity parade or the reason you smashed up poor Hattie.”
“I was trying to save her!”
“Oh my God. You still don’t get it.” Still not releasing the bottle, she digs an envelope out of her purse, slapping it down on the table between us. “You’re a moron, Ethan, brother or not. Hattie never needed you to save her from you.”
Before I can answer, she nods at the letter.
“Read it. If I can’t convince you to get your life together, maybe this will. Or maybe it’ll just send you into another conniption fit, who knows.” She throws me another disgusted look.
I see my name printed on top in perfectly neat handwriting I don’t recognize.
Margot takes a swig from the half-depleted bottle as she goes to find Ares’ leash. The screen door shuts behind her a minute later.
I’m all alone, a human volcano.
I want to go after Daley, but Margot storming in brings back everything I’ve tried to repress for so damn long.
The look on Hattie’s face when I finally left her—because she wouldn’t go. I told her to leave so many times and she still wouldn’t do it.
Fuck.
I slit the letter open, running my finger along the flap and grabbing the two pages inside. One page looks handwritten and the other, the one on top, is printed on expensive legal paper.
A quick, professional note from Jackie Wilkes authorizing the early release of a final letter from Gramps that was originally supposed to show up on my fifth month of marriage.
Shit.
For an entire minute, I don’t move, afraid to see whatever new scheme or lie he’s concocted.
If I tear it up right now, I’ll never have to know.
Even in death, the old man won’t fucking leave me alone.
But curiosity has me in a chokehold.
I toss Jackie’s letter aside and turn to Gramps’ note.
It’s not long, just half a page, but the sight of his spidery handwriting sends a bolt of nostalgia through me.
How am I supposed to hate a man I miss like a father?
Everything feels tangled and gnarled. So many wires and circuits crossed I want to rip the letter into a hundred scraps and cast it to the winds, along with all these feelings.
Instead, I sit my ass back down in the armchair and start reading.