That was hours ago.
Maybe yesterday. I have no fucking idea what time it is. I considered getting on a jet. Flying away. But where the hell would I go?
Instead, I parked myself on a stool at the airport bar. It never closes. Just goes from lunch to dinner to late night…to breakfast, I think? Is that next? Yup, the sun is coming up. Fuck.
And not a peep from Savannah. So it’s done. She knows. I’m sure she fucking knows. She’s probably seen Tara by now. They’ve put together the truth.
That’s why she texted that we needed to talk. Why she called so many damn times.
But I can’t see her. If I do, I’ll fold. I’ll sweep her back into my arms and do whatever I can to make peace with the idea that Tara’s daughter is the woman I want to be my wife.
Wife.
I take another swig of whiskey. Then I tap on her contact and hit Delete. There. It’s done. It’s over.
Fuck, it’s hard to breathe.
But it’s better this way. There’s a chance I could have worked past the truth, but how the fuck could I ever ask my sister to accept it? What Tara and Jeremy did destroyed our family. It cost us years. Forced my sister to leave. Led her to a situation where she had to sell her goddamn body for a living.
With anger burning in my chest, I down the last of the bottle’s contents. It does nothing to dull the ache, though.
“All right, you’ve had enough,” the bartender says. “Is there someone I can call?”
A sharp, short laugh bursts out of me. “Nah, I’ve got no one.”
I clutch the stupid empty bottle, heft it in one hand, then reel back and throw it against the wall.
“Camden Fucking Snow, I cannot believe you.”
My head pounds, the familiar high-pitched voice too loud. I smell like death and piss, and I just want to go back into the damn cell.
“Why are you here?”
My sister fists her hands on her hips and huffs. “Good question, since you’re not the one who called me after you got arrested.”
I can’t open my eyes without being hit with piercing pain. That’s good. I don’t think I could look at her right now anyway.
“You can thank this nice officer. You’re lucky he was a fan of yours when he was a kid. When you refused to use your one phone call, he called your emergency contact—me.”
“That’s a total violation of privacy,” I mutter, head bowed.
“Oh, you want to file a complaint against the cop who got you bailed out ofjail?” She smacks me on the back of the head, then stomps to the door.
I force myself to straighten and survey the group of officers milling nearby, witnessing our interaction. By some miracle, I manage to summon some common sense and decency. “Thanks for getting me out,” I say to the group, not knowing which one helped. “I’ll drop off some signed merch from the team next week.”
One of the guys lights up. “Could you get me a puck signed by JJ Hanson? And a jersey from Hawke?”
I nod, the movement sending another bolt of agony through my head, and close my eyes. “Yeah, no problem.”
“What time is it?” I ask my sister as we step out into the brutally cold February day.
“One,” she says, dropping my phone and wallet into her purse.
“And what day is it?” I ask, keeping my gaze on the sidewalk in front of me.
She glares at me. I still can’t look at her, but I can feel her ire. “Tuesday.”
“Fuck.”
