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Bryn shuts off the engine, leaving us stranded practically in the middle of the property.

“Traditionally, while we’re on vacation, we give our family pilot off the duration as well. He’s free to pick up other jobs or book his during the span, which is what he did. Which is why when I got the call that Samantha was being hospitalized with an upper respiratory infection – she was having trouble breathing and could even barely talk to me without wheezing – I demanded we go home.”

“So, you’ve like, never asked for things?” she sweetly teases as her frame angles in my direction.

“It’s not in the Wilcox nature.” The smile she’s flashed is half-hearted. “Hence how your dad got roped into flying us against the weather advisements not to. Dad and I went around and around and around until he was out negotiated. Ironically, I…think it was his pride over being outdone by me that had me pull the strings to get us a pilot willing to give the shit a shot.”

“Dad was a risktaker. I also got that from him.”

“And it was my fault he took his last one.”

“It was his fault,” Bryn unexpectedly bites back. “Dad didn’t take that job because you strongarmed him or he fell for your sob story. He took it because he had – yet again – gambled away a huge hunk of my college fund on shitty teams and horses.” Irritated headshakes are attached to an eyeroll. “I loved the man. He was…my dad…you know? But he wasn’t a good guy. He was addicted to gambling, a notorious cheater, and the whole reason my mom worked so hard to turn me into little miss rely on no one but yourself.” An innocent shrug presents itself. “You weren’t responsible for his death. He was.”

Longing to believe her, believe that, is what prompts me to question, “You honestly don’t blame me?”

“For what? Being in love?” She lets her face fall sweetly to one side. “Being a pushy eighteen-year-old who wanted to be there for the love of his life while she was suffocating to possible death in the hospital?” Another round of headshakes is given. “That’d be like blaming your parents for trying to be what they thought were good parents. Or blaming the weather reports for being so wrong all the time that we just get used to ignoring them.”

Disbelief deepens further in my glare.

“That’s why you hide, isn’t it? Why you keep your body covered? Why you’ve never had surgeries I know exist to remove or replace the imperfections? Because you blame yourself.”

“I don’t deserve to see anything other than a selfish monster when I look in the mirror.”

“You’re nothing more than a whale shark that’s mislabeled himself a bull shark during a snorkeling accident.” More kindness appears threatening to suffocate me. “You’ve more than paid your unnecessary penance, Wes. Between keeping our name out of the press – allowing me to live a non-spotlight life – and hiring my mom – which I’m assuming you did when she refused to take a handout because handouts aren’t who she is – you’ve punished yourself enough.” Her fingers find the keys to turn the vehicle on again. “So, knock that shit off, and finally, start living a little.”

“Why do I deserve to live when they didn’t deserve to die?” gushes past my lips in a broken, almost unheard whisper.

“How does you not living bring them back from the dead?”

The unexpected counter stuns me silent.

I know logically she’s right.

That no matter how many years I keep to myself and others at arm’s length it won’t bring them back.

It won’t make the time that’s passed without them hurt less.

Sometimes…sometimes I wonder if it simply makes it hurt more.

If my parents would be impressed by the progress of the company but heartbroken at the regression of their son.

Grateful for the legacy I’ve preserved, yet disappointed I haven’t made it my own.

“What happened with Samantha?” Bryn casually inquires while making her next available right. “She die?”

“No.” Post clearing away the emotions stuck in my throat, I add, “She left me.”

“What?!”

“During the extensive treatment process.”

“What?!”

“She couldn’t stand the sight of me and couldn’t stand the simple idea of seeing it in our photos.”

“Cunt.”

Laughter returns to us in full force, shaking both of our previously tense frames.

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