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As I’m about to disconnect, he suddenly says, “I do have one regret.”
That gets my attention. “And what’s that?”
“Leaving you behind, forcing you to carry the burden of my blood without someone to guide you. Leaving you adrift without someone that understands you.” Damon’s face flashes in my mind as my father continues. “I love you, my little Penguin. Never forget that.”
The worker clears his throat, reminding us of his presence.
It’s hard to find the right words to express the indescribable pain that blooms in my chest. “I won’t forget, Dad. I love you, too.”
We touch hands through the cool glass again, my heart tearing into two as it all sinks in.
“It’s time,” the attendant reminds me.
My father disconnects the line and stands, giving me one last look—eyes filled with strength and love. It’s the kind of look only a father can give his child as they say goodbye for the last time. I watch as he’s escorted away, my body numb, all words lost on my tongue. I should have said more, but it’s too late now.
I’m lost in a daze as I make my way out of the prison and into the parking lot, my mind still stuck in that booth. His words about finding someone who understands me still echo in my ears as I get into my car.
I can’t help but wonder if there’s some truth to it.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
HIM
Ihave to admit, I can be envious at times.
In elementary school, I felt envious of the other kids who brought their shiny new toys to play with after Christmas break, while I was left with nothing—because my cheating, deadbeat father had left us for his mistress.
In middle school, while everyone else got trendy new clothes, I had to make do with threadbare hand-me-downs—because my alcoholic, coked-up mother was too busy blowing her money to get her next fix.
In high school, I envied my classmates who had the luxury of being accepted into their dream colleges thanks to their families’ affluence, while I knew I would be stuck drowning in student loan debt—because the system is rigged to favor those born under privilege.
Envy is an ugly emotion, that is a fact. But jealously.
Now that is so much worse.
I thought I could handle it—play the dorky journalist, Blake Sullivan, during the day. Then I can be myself at night. On and off, just like a switch. But Gwen always runs tohimfor comfort, confides inhimher worries. We fuck, yeah, but she doesn’t let me in the place that truly matters.
She likes him, might even prefer him over me. And I’m fuckingsickof it.
Playing the goody two-shoes is suffocating. While there are benefits to being charming in that manner, it makes me feel trapped. I want to shed my layers and show the person beneath my facade—the man who is ambitious, passionate, and willing to take risks for something greater than himself.
I can’t help but wonder if she’d still love me if she got to know this version of myself. All I want is for her to see me, to understand me like only she can. We are the same underneath it all. But with every step forward I take with Gwen, I find myself two steps back. If I’m ever going to get through to her, then something needs to change.
The time for her final test is approaching.
And I must ensure that she passes.
I take a sip of my coffee and yawn, lingering in the parking lot of the Fallbank Chronicle as my thoughts spiral. It’s going to be a long day. I arrived at the office early to work on the story assigned to me by William. He wants an article about a new development project being proposed for downtown—a stage theater. Make it compelling, he said. As if I don’t know my shit.
I finish my coffee, leave the empty cup in the center console for future me to deal with, and step out of the car. Pulling the strap of my bag higher up my shoulder, I head toward the building. I pass a nondescript black SUV, which immediately gives me pause. Ignoring the unease that creeps in, I continue on my way.
I enter the Chronicle, making my way to my computer. The office is still relatively empty, apart from a couple of coworkers tucked away in their respective spaces. Sitting down at my desk, I power up my PC and begin compiling my notes on the development—including the budget, timeline for completion, and other pertinent details.
As I type, I can’t help but steal a glimpse now and then at the SUV. It seems innocuous; no one is in or around it, and nothing seems amiss. But what if they’re here for me? Shaking off the thought, I mentally berate myself for being paranoid and turn my attention back to my writing. I get back into the groove of things when someone places a hand on my shoulder.
It’s David, his gaze trained on the drawn blinds of William’s office. “He’s been in there a long time.”
