Fuck! FUCK!
What if it’s too late?
What if I can’t fix this?
What if there’s too much emotional damage for him to overcome?
What if he doesn’t want me in his life?
What if my son—God, myson—hates me forever?
The thought alone makes me want to vomit.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one, then immediately clench my jaw.
I know I shouldn’t have to apologize. I’m just as much the victim here as Connor is but fuck if I don’t feel an immense amount of guilt pressing down on my chest. It’s like I’m pinned against the board and no whistle is coming.
I say it again, louder this time, like it might somehow reach back through time and heal the gaping wound of my absence.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
But sorry doesn’t give a kid his dad.
Sorry doesn’t sit in the stands screaming until he’s hoarse or lace skates with freezing fingers at 5AM practices. Sorry doesn’t teach him how to fall and get back up.
Sorry doesn’t undo ten years of absence.
A sob breaks loose, sharp and ugly, ripping straight through my chest. I cover my mouth with a trembling hand, trying to keep quiet because the last thing Connor needs is to hear me falling apart over something he has every right to be angry about.
I press my fist into my sternum like I can physically hold my shattered heart together.
He thinks I didn’t love him and that thought is unbearable.
It’s killing me.
It’s FUCKING killing me.
I would’ve loved him into the ground.
I would’ve loved him so hard it scared me.
I would’ve chosen him over everything. Over every trophy, every contract, every goddamn championship.
But none of that matters because it’s theoretical.
And Connor lives in a reality where his father wasn’t there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HARPER
Ifind him by the sound of the water.
At first I think I’m imagining it—just the low rush of pipes settling—but then I hear it again, steady and unmistakable, coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall.
“Harrison?” I call softly.
No answer.
