‘Listen, Charlie…’ He drags a hand over his face, like he’s trying to scrape the truth out of his own skin. ‘I’ve spent my entire life thinking love was something you earned. It wasn’t like that with you.’ He lets out a dry laugh. ‘I fucking hated you at first. Couldn’t stand how you looked at me. Like all that shite about me was true. But that wasn’t you. That was me. I looked at myself like that. You…you fought for me, regardless. You brought me back. Not because it was your job. You fuckingbelievedin me.’
My heart’s a frenzied mess, hurling itself against my breastbone.
His gaze stays pinned to mine. ‘And I was too caught up in myself to see it. Thought I had to keep proving myself. Showing them I was more than a fuck-up. I was too proud to just…let you in. You deserved me fighting for you. And I didn’t. I let you down. That’s on me.’
My lungs are too tight, as if I’m drowning on dry land. I hate how much I want to believe him.
‘I didn’t gamble, Charlie. I swear on Nonna’s grave, I didn’t. I thought you should believe me without question. Like I’d earned that. But you didn’t owe me that trust. You’ve been hurt before. And I should’ve—’
‘You didn’t have to earn anything,’ I say. ‘I loved you because you were worth it. Because you made me feel safe and happy. But when I saw you in that room… I just—’ The words wobble out. ‘I panicked. I thought I’d been foolish to trust again. Like it was my fault for hoping too much. And then you…let me go.’
His face crumbles. ‘Loved, Charlie?’
I try to say something, but he barrels on.
‘Loved? Fuck that. Cause I’m not done loving you. I’ll never be done loving you for as long as I live. Do you fucking understand that?’
He’s in pain. So much pain.
I am, too.
‘You’re my girl. You’ll always be my girl. Even if you end up on a couch next to some other lucky bastard at seventy, in your heart, you’ll know it. You’re mine. You don’t walk away from a love like that, Charlie. Even if you leave it behind, it stays with you until the day you die.’
My legs nearly give out, and I’m crying. I believe he’s crying, too. But I can’t see straight, so I don’t know for sure.
‘You don’t only own my arse, Harrington. You own my heart. Think long and hard about what you’re gonna do with it.’
His chest heaves, every word torn straight out of him. I’m about to speak, about to say something, anything. But then—
‘Charlotte.’ My father’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Seriously? Now?
‘Dad.’ I haven’t seen him in nine months. Have I been avoiding him harder than Brodie? Yes. Do I have good reasons for it? Also yes. Does it make me feel like crap? Hell, yes.
Brodie stiffens, each muscle ready to pounce.
‘Glad you could make it,’ my father says nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t let me down cold when I needed him most. ‘Hannah’s been excited for tonight.’
‘I know. I speak to her every day. Do you?’
He bristles, then deflects. His usual M.O.
‘Brodie MacRae, didn’t know you were interested in Christmas talent shows. Not unless there’s poker involved.’ My dad lets out a sonorous laugh at the sentence. It sounds straight-up mean.
Can’t believe we share fifty per cent of our genes.
Brodie’s coiled up like he’s about to detonate.
And I’m right in the middle.
Oh God.
Brodie’s face darkens. ‘So you’re the posh dick who treats his daughters like crap.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ My father seems consternated.
My fatherneverseems consternated.
