cove
“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.”
Emily Dickinson
Mr. Cole:
When can I see you again?
Once I can finally catch a break. Drowning in work and real life problems. Nothing you’re familiar with, I’m afraid.
Mr. Cole:
Judgment doesn’t suit you, Cove. Care to try again?
I fly to Chicago tomorrow for a 48 hr turnaround. Then, back home for a day. A week in Paris the next. Not sure I have room to eventry, country boy.
Mr. Cole:
Such a shame. I guess I’ll have to take a number and wait in line? I won’t mention how much I appreciate the nickname either.
So be it. Might be a while.
Mr. Cole:
Actually.
Mr. Cole:
I take that back. Waiting isn’t my style. See you in Chicago.
What?No. No. No.
What does he mean he’llseeme in Chicago? As in, he’llmeetme in Chicago for my layover? What in the actual fucking bananas is this madness?
He can’t just show up whenever and wherever he wants. I forbid it. Kind of. Not really, but still.
As much as I want to overthink Stetson’s words and pry further, I can’t right now. Not when I’m seconds away from speaking to my sperm donor for the first time in twenty-one years.
I’ve gone through a mix of emotions getting up to this point. Shifting from fire-burning adamancy to reach out and do what needs to be done, while also second-guessing every minor possibility.
Will this ruin all the progress I’ve made, making myself the woman I am today without him?
Will I experience grief all over again?
Or will I hate him even more—if that’s even possible? Will I make it my life’s mission to let him see how happy I am without him? It would be the worst lie I evertold, but he doesn’t need to know that, nor does he deserve to.
Truth be told, it doesn’t matter how I feel. What matters is what he can give me. I never thought in all my thirty years of living that I’d bethatwoman. The one who uses someone for money. But when it comes to Nathaniel McIntosh, all limits are off the table.
His dirty money is mine for the taking. Well, I’m hoping so.
I took today off from flying, knowing I would need time and a strong beverage to hype myself up for this call. My mother knows nothing about this, and she never will. It’s a secret I’ll take with me to my grave.
I can imagine the fit she would throw, forbidding me to ever insist on saving her again. She has no idea the lengths I’d go to help her. To make sure she lives a life she wants—comfortably and without worry or debt.
I’m going to give her that.
I’ve been anxiously pacing my bedroom, gripping my phone like it’ll take the call for me, and do all the talking. I threw back a shot of whiskey, begging it to settle my nerves. But I hate whiskey, and all it did was make the bitterness in my chest burn hotter.
