Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“You need to take your hand off me,” I say.
“Oh.” She flinches, withdrawing her fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
I narrow my gaze. “Don’t worry. If you meant anything, I’m certain you’d make it clear.”
A cloud settles over her eyes. “Gannon, can we talk for a minute?”
“No. No, we can’t.”
“Please. We left things so badly.”
“Ten years ago, Tatum. None of that matters anymore.”
I need to get the hell out of here.
I never should have agreed to come.
“No, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she says. “We’ve both moved on.”
She stands tall and beautiful—as regal and put-together as ever. A giant diamond sits on her ring finger on her left hand, and she wears a gold pin near her collar, which suggests she’s a current member of the parent-teacher association. She clearly leads a full life. She’s definitely moved on.
Good for fucking her.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, the words in stark contrast to my terse tone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“I said a lot of things to you back then that still haunt me,” Tatum says quickly. “I regret it more than you’ll ever know.”
What? Confused, yet curious, I pause.
“There have been many days where I’ve almost picked up the phone to call you to apologize,” she says. “Then I think about how it’s been ten years and how ridiculous it would be to call you out of the blue, so I don’t. But I think back on that time of my life all the time and I’m genuinely embarrassed by my actions. I just want you to know that.” She smiles sadly. “You deserve to know that.”
My head spins at her admission and, mostly, her apology. I’ve imagined this scenario for years, but it never came with an apology.
“I was a horrible person, Gannon. I used you and took advantage of your love. And when it didn’t work out in my favor, I did everything that I could to hurt you.” She laughs as if she’s fighting tears. “Who does that sort of thing?”
I blow out a breath, trying to wrap my head around what she’s saying. It’s wild and almost unbelievable. But, at the same time, it’s validating. It’s a fucking relief.
I’m not crazy.
“You know, I have two children. A little boy and a little girl,” she says. “And when I think about a woman doing to my son what I did to you, or imagining my daughter being so poisonous to have the capability to do those things to a man … it’s hard to breathe sometimes.”
“Tatum,” I say, but the word fades into the air.
Think, Brewer.
“No, Gannon. You don’t have to say anything. I’m not here to put you on the spot or force you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I’m truly sorry for trapping you into a marriage that you probably didn’t really want, and for making your life hell.”
Fuck.
It would be so easy to walk away and let her carry all the blame for our fucked-up past. But the truth is that our failure wasn’t only on her. I had a part in it, too. And although I don’t want to be having this conversation, and I don’t need her apology or think she particularly deserves mine … Carys does.
Carys deserves for me to put this whole Tatum thing to bed because if I don’t, I’ll never figure out how to move forward with her. And that’s what matters. She matters.
She’s all that matters.
My heart slams against my rib cage as my brain goes a million miles per hour. Pieces of my past, present, and future snap into place. Suddenly, the picture is clear.
I had to come tonight for this moment to happen, for this realization to occur. I had to look into Tatum’s eyes and realize I never loved her. What I felt for Tatum wasn’t love—it was an obligation. And I used that to try to prove to the world, to myself, that I wasn’t my father.
That’s where I fucked up. That was unfair to Tatum. I was in such a hurry to be everything he wasn’t—a great husband, the best dad, a good man—that I turned out to be none of those things.
I became more like Reid Brewer than ever before. Bitter. Angry. Cold.
“I never should’ve married you,” I say, relief sweeping through me. “I put a lot of pressure on you, on us, to heal a wound that neither of us created. And it only made it worse.”
“Maybe it did make it worse. But you wouldn’t have been in that situation if I hadn’t told you I was pregnant.”
My brows pull together, and my throat tightens again. “Were you pregnant?”
It’s the one question I’ve never known the answer to and one I’ve never asked. Both answers are unfortunate, and both options are painful. But I need to know. I need to know so I can try to let this go.