Today, he donned his protective equipment and nodded at Jackson as he took up his post.
Jackson just shook his head.
Great. Even his best friend had lost all hope.
“Man, you havegotto talk to somebody,” Jackson said. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
Nick grunted and wandered off, seeking the violent heat of the furnace. Talking wouldn’t do him any good. He’d poured himself out, bled words until he’d run dry, and what did he have to show for it?
Nothing. Except the false, cruel hope that, twenty-three months from now, he might have a shot at happiness. Well, twenty-one, if he worked backward from the time Paige would move out.
Not that he was counting, or anything.
At least, he shouldn’t be, because he didn’t trust it. He’d once lost Aubrey in the span of two weeks. Two fucking weeks. Compared to that, twenty-one months was a lifetime, and so he knew exactly what awaited at the end of that countdown, what hadalwaysawaited him when it came to Aubrey MacLean. She’d probably be married by then. It was a miracle she wasn’t already.
He would still track her down, of course. Make himself congratulate her. Then he’d proceed to go die a brokenhearted death, somewhere private.
But for now, he read her letter each night until his soul cracked. He took more showers than ever, no longer fueled by memories worn thin by decades, but by the very real agony of knowing exactly what she felt like. She was all cream and silk and sunshine—nothing like the roughened hand he tried to placate himself with.
When the showers failed him, he fought.
He drank too much.
He wondered if his daughter-who-wasn’t still loved him.
He filed for divorce. Which felt redundant; his mind had divorced Tansy years ago. But he wanted the law to reflect reality, so he worked out an agreement with her that didn’t involve lawyers. She got the house, he kept his retirement accounts. Simple. Now he only had to wait for the decision to grind its way through the wheels of the legal system. Any day now, hewould receive an official statement informing him that he was utterly—and now legally—completely fucking alone.
One morning, he sat down to breakfast and realized Paige’s winter break had begun. It had crept up on him, somehow. Materialized out of the fog.
“Daddy?” She reached over the table and took his hand. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
He summoned a bent smile. “I’m fine, Peanut. How’re you? How’d exams go?”
She shrugged. “Fine. A’s across the board.”
A flicker of true warmth heated his smile. “Of course.”
“Of course. Hey. . .” Her thumb grazed across the backs of his fingers. “What’re you doing today? Do you have any plans?”
He waded through the haze cobwebbing his mind. It was Sunday, which he hated. Sundays were empty and formless, offering nothing in the way of distraction. “I don’t know. I’ll probably spar with Jackson, later. Why?”
A hopeful spark lit her eyes. “What if we drove up to Chicago, instead? Checked out the holiday lights?”
He almost choked. He couldn’t get his agreement out fast enough.
Paige grinned. “Aww. You’re excited. That lights me up inside. Get it?”
Everything in him softened, but he still played along. “Wow. Don’t quit your day job, kid.”
She giggled. “But my day job is being awesome. I couldn’t quit that if I tried.”
He snorted, then gave in to a full-blown laugh. The sound startled him. He hadn’t heard it in so long. “If you say so.”
In the car, Paige chirped about one thing after another. Mostly having to do with college admissions. Half an hour in, her phone pinged. She pulled it out and squealed at the name on the screen.
“Maria?” he said, with a lift of his eyebrow.
“No. Aubrey.”
