He hangs up.
I set down the phone. Look at the mixing bowl again.
I spent years being the beautiful restaurateur. The photogenic owner. The guy who could charm investors and critics with equal ease.
Now I’m the guy who hides in his room and makes business decisions through email and phone calls.
But at least I’m making the right decisions.
At least I’m not feeding the vultures.
At least I’m keeping Ben and Jess out of the crossfire.
That has to count for something.
Even if it doesn’t fix my face.
Or erase the guilt.
Or bring back the man I used to be.
I return to the mirror. Force myself to look one more time.
The scar stares back. Permanent. Proof that nature doesn’t give a fuck how much money you have or how good you look or how carefully you plan.
Dr. Reeves said more surgery could help.
But I’m done.
Done with the reconstruction. Done with trying to put back together something that was never whole in the first place.
This is my face now.
This is who I am.
A man who loved the wrong woman at the wrong time and paid for it with everything.
A father who nearly got his daughter killed because he confused control with care.
A coward who can’t even open a door and face the woman who saved his life.
Maybe someday I’ll be ready.
Maybe someday I’ll let Jess see what’s left of me.
But not today.
Not yet.
I turn off the light and walk back to bed.
The darkness feels safer somehow.
44
Jess
Two weeks have passed since Marco returned home and I’m standing in the kitchen stress-eating apple slices like they’re going to solve all my problems.
