We open the door to a quiet house. It’s dark except for a lamp in the living room. I let Bramble in first, and she immediately bolts toward her bed by the fireplace, tail wagging. I follow slower, my boots heavy on the hardwood.
I set my keys in the bowl by the door, and that’s when it hits me.
All those years. All that work. The long deployments, the dangerous jobs, the endless nights away from home. I did it all thinking I was building something. A foundation. A future. Something I could lay at Violet’s feet and say,See? I’m not just some fuck up from a broken family. I can provide. I can be the kind of man your father would approve of.
I’ve been so goddamn obsessed with proving I was more than financially capable of supporting her. More than just stable—I wanted to be impressive. Wanted to walk into her parents’ house and have her father see me as worthy. Not the kid whose dad attempted to drink himself to death or the guy with more tattoos than prospects.
And for what?
So I could miss her cousin’s wedding? So I could leave her standing alone at events that matter to her? So I could be stuck halfway across the world while she sits in a hotel room in Scotland, alone, wondering if she’s a priority?
What the fuck was the point of any of it if I can’t be there for her?
This was never supposed to be about chasing the next paycheck big enough to prove something to people who were never going to be impressed anyway.
I know how to assess risks, protect, and how to anticipate problems before they happen. I’ve spent years getting damn good at it, but I’ve been doing it for everyone else.
That stops now. All along, I should’ve been building something of my own. Something that keeps me here.
I’m done living a life that takes me away from the one person I can’t lose.
thirty-nine
. . .
Violet
Igot back from Scotland a few days ago. Rowan texted me and told me to stay at our place with the animals while he crashes at Beau’s. I could have stayed with Whit, but I didn’t argue. I missed Echo and Bramble too much.
I miss him more, though. And Bramble’s been following at my heels from room to room, her sad eyes asking questions I can’t answer.
I open the fridge and close it again before wandering back into the living room and dropping onto the couch, Bramble curling into my side like she’s afraid I’ll vanish, too.
“Me too, girl,” I whisper, burying my fingers into her fur. “I miss him, too.”
I take care of Echo every morning before work, brushing her coat until it gleams. There’s something healing about the repetitive motion, about her gentle nickering when she sees me approach. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t need explanations.
Three days pass. Then five. Then a week.
Rowan texts each day, just once. Simple messages that don’t ask for responses.
Hope you’re okay.
There’s lasagna in the freezer if you want it.
I read each one, my thumb hovering over the keyboard before I set the phone down without replying. What would I even say? That I spend half the night staring at his empty side of the bed? That I keep finding his T-shirts and pressing them to my face like some lovesick teenager? That I miss him so much that it physically hurts?
On day eight, Whitley shows up at the door with a bottle of wine and two pints of ice cream.
“Intervention time,” she announces, pushing past me into the kitchen. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, closing the door behind her. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”
She sets the wine on the counter and fixes me with a look that’s half concern, half exasperation. “Have you talked to him at all?”
I shake my head, reaching for wine glasses in the cabinet. “No.”
“Why not?” She uncorks the bottle with practiced ease. “And don’t say ‘I need space’ because we both know you’ve had enough to build a small moon colony.”
