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Bitterness burns up the back of my throat during my continued surveying.
How much of my legacy is a lie?
How much of me?
“Your glass,” speaks a member of the kitchen staff, holding up the item for display.
“Desk.” The second it’s placed down, I growl, “Leave.”
Sounds of their feet scurrying away barely precede my fiancée’s displeased voice, “Redecorating, Weston?”
I reluctantly force myself to turn and face her. “No.” Bryn attempts to come further into the room prompting me to bite again, “No.”
“No, what?”
“Do not come in here.”
Confusion and consternation alike collide in her complexion. “Excuse me?”
Uncertainty regarding what exactly I’m going to tell her along with when, pushes me to proclaim, “This area is off limits for now.”
“To me?”
“To. Everyone.”
Additional unhappiness appears in her tone, “Why?”
“I cannot speak on the subject,” mockingly leaves me.
“Okay.”
Her surrendering is easy.
Too easy.
“How about you speak on the subject of standing me the fuck up at the opening of Maxximum Effort?” Bryn’s scowl instantly deepens in tandem with her vision narrowing. “You know the new fucking comic bookstore you personally promised the owner we’d be at?”
Guilt tries to claw its way under my skin yet fails.
Because there’s no room.
No room for anything that isn’t hostility.
Frustration.
“Care to comment on where you were or why I waited there for two hours for you to show or fucking call?!”
Against my better judgement, I sneer, “How would you know? Your phone was probably stashed under the seat in the SUV or between the cushions in the aquarium room or behind a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
Her jaw cracks just enough to remind me of the terrible mistake I just made.
How I’m directing my irateness at the wrong person.
For the wrong reasons.
“Where. Were. You?”
My hands shove themselves into my black pants pockets at the same time I announce, “Something came up.”
