Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
His shoulders begin to shake, and all the blood instantly drains from my limbs to pool in my core.
I’ve never seen Barrett cry. Ever.
I’ve never even seen him sad, really. Even after his divorce, he was low energy and obviously down, but his grief was tightly controlled, like everything else about him.
Now, he’s unravelling in front of my eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I don’t know, Wren. I don’t want to let you down or hurt you, but I don’t trust myself. So many things fly under my radar. How can I make promises to you and know I can keep them when I’m consistently getting it wrong?”
“Getting what wrong?” I whisper, aching to hold him, but knowing he won’t let me. His entire body is stiff and he’s already backing away.
“Emotion. Connection,” he says, drawing his shoulders back as he pulls in a breath. He swallows and his expression smooths. It’s like he’s flipped a switch inside him and suddenly all the messy stuff is contained. “Love. I’m not sure I even know what it is, at least not the way other people know. And I sure as hell don’t have faith that I can give you what you need.” He walks to the bedroom door and opens it. “Please, go. Please, before we hurt each other any more than we have already.”
The world blurring from the tears spilling from my eyes, I head back to the window and crawl into the tree. A few limbs down, I hear Barrett demand that I come back and take the stairs, but I don’t listen. I can’t listen anymore.
It hurts too much.
It hurts worse than I could imagine an emotion could hurt.
It tears away at me all the way to the wedding in Patrice’s car and back to Barrett’s house in the one, very expensive cab company willing to come fetch me at the winery. It hurts as I walk through the darkened rooms that I was so excited to call home, making me wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.
Without Barrett, I’m afraid the chances of that are pretty slim.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BARRETT
I don’t sleep at all. Not a wink the entire night.
I lie in Drew’s very comfortable guest bed, staring at the fan whirling on the ceiling, hating myself for maybe the first time in my life.
My personality clearly leaves several things to be desired, but a lack of confidence and inner peace has rarely been a problem. I’ve always rested assured in the fact that I work hard, keep my promises, and do my best to be a dependable and accomplished son, brother, student, physician, husband, and boss. I make mistakes like everyone else, but it has never been from a lack of giving the things and people I care about my all.
Thus far, that’s been enough to keep the caustic inner voice mostly at bay.
But now it rips into me like a wild dog falling on its first meal in weeks.
I’ve hurt the one person I want to protect, the one woman I cherish more than any other. I’ve caused her pain and though the logical part of me insists that this pain is necessary in order to avoid much bigger, more lasting pain in the future, I can’t banish the gnawing, aching, wretched feeling from my gut.
Finally, at five-thirty, when the first morning light penetrates the gauzy guest room curtains, I give up hope and get out of bed. I shower, change out of the pajamas Drew loaned me last night and back into my tuxedo, then pad softly down to the kitchen to start breakfast.
After appearing on my brother’s porch last night without warning, demanding sanctuary, it feels like the least I can do.
Moving quietly around the kitchen, I find potatoes in the pantry and set about washing and shredding them for hash browns, trying to ignore the now weary voice in my head, reminding me that I am the stinky potato. But thankfully, none of Drew’s potatoes have gone rancid, and twenty minutes later, after adding onions and peppers, I have a large batch of hash browns browning in a cast iron skillet.
I’m hunting for sausage in the fridge, when a little voice asks, “Uncle Barrett did you have a sleepover?”
I look around the fridge door to see five-year-old Sarah Beth, her stuffed dog in the crook of her arm, rubbing her eyes by the table. I force a smile, “I slept in the guest room.”
“Why?” She cocks her head to one side, before suggesting, “Did you have bad dreams at your house and need company?”
“Something like that,” I say. “But it’s morning now so things are better.” Or they will be, someday. As soon as I know that Wren has moved on and is happy with someone else. Someone better. “I thought I’d surprise your dad with loaded hash browns. He loved those when we were kids.”