I pull out my wallet. Hand over my credit card. Watch Michael walk away to process the payment that will drain another significant chunk of my savings. Money I was planning to use for—what? What was I planning? A future? With Chloe? After the contract ends?
Doesn’t matter now.
My father sits back down at the table, defeated. That gleam in his eye, that manic glint he gets at the table, is gone now. And he’s somehow smaller. Older. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, son.”
“You always are.”
“I’ll pay you back?—”
“No, you won’t. We both know you won’t.” I’m so tired. Bone-deep tired. “I’m done, Dad.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“I’m done. Cleaning up your messes. Bailing you out. Pretending this is normal.” I crouch down so we’re eye level. “You want help? Real help? Call me when you’re ready for treatment. Otherwise, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Brody, please?—”
“This is it. This is the last time.” I stand. My legs feel unsteady. “Get yourself home. Don’t call me unless you’re really ready to change.”
“You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, anger replacing the pleading. Heads turn again, a few looks of recognition flickering across their faces. “Mr. Perfect? Hockey star? You’re just like me. Running from everything that matters. Hiding behind that fake smile and perfect image. You’re just a liar, like your old man.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Maybe,” I say, swallowing the ache in my throat. “But at least I’m trying to change. Are you?”
I stand and walk away, leaving him there, calling after me. I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
It’s after midnight by the time I get back to the resort. The lobby is dark except for emergency lighting and the glow from the dying fireplace. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, too loud in the silence.
My key card beeps against the lock as I enter the honeymoon suite as quietly as possible.
The lights are low. Just the fireplace, burned down to embers that cast barely any light. The room smells like the lavender candles someone keeps lighting and the faint scent of Chloe’s shampoo—something floral and clean.
I stop.
Chloe is lying on the sofa, her eyes shut, her hair pouring around her shoulders. Asleep.
The glow of the dying fire catches her face, and for a moment, I just look.
She is beautiful.
The door finally clicks behind me, and I let out a hiss as she stirs.
“Brody? You’re back.”
“Shhh, it’s okay, go back to sleep.” But it’s too late. She sits up, her hair falling around her shoulders, wearing an oversized T-shirt that says something I can’t read in the dim light.
“I thought maybe you weren’t coming back,” she says softly.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” My voice sounds wrecked. I clear my throat. “It was my dad. He was…” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t explain the whole disaster.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be. Eventually.”I hope.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice like velvet in the dark.
No, I’m not. I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’m all right.”
