But should I?
Probably not.
I have a lot to think about. and I behaved horribly.
“I’m pretty sure Tate is furious with me,” I admit sadly. “And I can’t think about what to do about him until I figure out what to do with my mom.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Tate could help with that? My wife is my other half. My sounding board. The person who gives me clarity when I need it most. Whether there’s an issue in Parliament or our oldest son is being a pain in the butt teenager or I have to figure out pieces of next year’s budget—she’s always there to help. Even if it’s just to listen. Or give me a perspective from outside the political arena. Could Tate be that person for you?”
The answer is yes.
But it’s also no.
I don’t know what to do or how to feel.
Nothing has changed, not really, except maybe my perspective.
Because I screwed up.
Badly.
And I don’t know if I can fix it.
Chapter 37
Tate
It’s late by the time we end the set and spend time backstage with local media, friends, and family. It was a lot of fun playing for this crowd outside the palace, but stupid me, I just kept looking to the wings, hoping beyond hope she’d come back. That she’d be standing there waiting for me when I was done.
That didn’t happen.
It’s nearly three in the morning before I get back to our suite. My suite. The suite that suddenly feels ridiculously empty. A lot like my life.
I’ve been replaying that last conversation with Summer over and over in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
I should have told her I loved her, given her a reason to stay, but she was so focused on everything going on with her mom, I don’t think she would have listened. Or believed me.
It hurt when she called our relationship nothing but a mistake. Like this is some random fling. I’m not sure how much more I could have done to prove myself to her, but I don’t think there’s anything I could have done that would convince her of my sincerity.
I heard from her just before we went on stage, a brief text telling me her mother had been found and that she was safe. That was it. Nothing personal, no apology, just the basics.
Honestly, I don’t know where to go from here.
I’m physically exhausted, but my brain is on overload so there’s no way I’m going to sleep now. Luckily, there’s a bottle of bourbon in my luggage—a gift from Erik—and I pour two fingers before taking the glass and walking over to the window. There isn’t much to see at this time of night, so I spend a lot of time staring out at nothing, sipping my drink and wondering what I’m supposed to do.
I’ve never had a broken heart, beyond some high school nonsense, so this is new to me. But that’s the only explanation I can come up with for this pit in my stomach and the all-encompassing emptiness. For a little while on stage I felt like myself again, but the moment I was done, it all came rushing back.
The thing is, I’m not walking away from my kid, no matter what Summer thinks or wants. I can’t force her to love me or to give us a chance, but I’m sure as shit going to make a stink if she tries to keep my kid from me. I don’t want this to get ugly, but I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my son or daughter knows that I’m there for them.
Unlike her father.
And in a lot of ways, like my parents.
They were there physically, but emotionally? I didn’t get much. So, I won’t do that to my kid. If only my feelings for his or her mother were easier to navigate because I’m so damn confused.
I’m startled awake by knocking on the door and realize I fell asleep in the chair by the window.
Fuck, my neck is stiff and my back is going to be sore today, but I walk over to open the door.
