“Christ, Tom,” he grumbles, cutting me off. “I didn’t call to fight or listen to your veiled threats. I called to explain myself because I feel bad about all of this.”
He doesn’t get a response from me because I’m not sure what else I can say. Our motivations are different, even if our end game is the same.
For Winter to be happy.
“Do you want what’s best for her?” he eventually asks, voice calmer than before. He knows he won’t get anywhere otherwise.
I swallow, thinking back to yesterday.
The redness in her eyes.
The weight on her shoulders.
The words whipped like a weapon until they sliced my skin.
“Yes,” I admit into the phone.
Ashton makes a noise.
We fall silent.
For one second.
Two.
Three.
Then, Ashton says, “Then you need to cut it off with her, Tom.”
He doesn’t list the reasons why, but I can hear them clear as day between the lines.
Because of my wife.
Because Winter deserves better.
I pull up to the front of Hoffman’s house, where cars from the other players line the driveway, road, and front lawn. I see Jesse Clarkson outside on his phone before he raises a hand to wave in my direction.
My jaw clenches, teeth grinding at the thought of letting this all go.
You need to cut it off with her.
Problem is, I don’t want to.
“I could say the same for you,” I point out. There’s no ice in my words, but the accusation is there regardless. He knows he can’t hold on to the guilt forever. He can’t twist fate’s hand to make sure Winter and her sister wind up okay for the rest of their lives.
Eventually, he has to let it go too.
He has to let them make their own choices without influencing them. He says he didn’t play a hand in Winter getting this job, but I don’t think he’s being honest with himself. And he’ll be just as much of a reason why she’s upset if she ever finds out.
Ashton makes a thoughtful noise. “I know,” he eventually murmurs. Then an even quieter, “I know.”
Knowing there’s nothing more to say, I hang up and set my phone down.
There’s still no message from Emaly.
None from Winter either, not that I expect it.
Swiping a palm down my face, I lean my head against the rest and close my eyes. “What a shit show,” I say to myself.
