Page 78 of This

I shoulder past my cousin, his eyes mid-roll, not slowing down when Bennett calls my name. She chases after me, trying to stop me until she catches up in the parking lot.

“Please don’t walk away from me.”

Her plea brings me to a stop. Not because I promised I wouldn’t walk away from her again, but because all the exasperation toward her emerges after being buried. She steps back when I stalk toward her.

“Why the fuck not? I’ve watched you do it enough.”

Her eyes widen at first, and then she folds her arms over her chest. “That’s not fair.”

I laugh, scrubbing my hands over my face. “You know what’s not fair? Being in love with someone who is too wrapped up in their shit to care about yours.”

“I care,” she says, but it’s flimsy.

“Do you? We can only be together, so long as I abide by what you want and don’t want. Never once have you considered what I want. What I need.”

Maybe—justmaybe—I’m displacing some of my anger onto her, but right now, I have too much to get off my chest to stop.

I move closer, my eyebrows drawing in. “I was abandoned, too, Bennett. Your mother might have chosen to bail, but mine left too. And now, you keep doing the same, and I let you because I have this fucked idea that, one time, you won’t. That, one time, you’ll stay with me.” I shake my head, forcing myself to dry-swallow something I should have realized long before now. “But you never will. There will always be an excuse why you won’t let me all the way in. And as much as I thought I could, I can’t do this with you anymore.”

She swipes at the tears on her cheeks, lips trembling. Devastating and beautiful. Fuck, it hurts, and I have to look at the ground, biting back a sting in my own eyes.

“Liam can take you to the airport.” I bend down and kiss her temple. “Goodbye, Bennett.”

The words strangle me on their way out, my chest on fire at the thought of them being real.

With every step toward my truck, I will her to say something. To give me a reason to stop, to believe, one day, we’ll be enough for her to quit running from all the shit she refuses to sort out inside her head.

But she doesn’t, and I drive away.

Neither of us would bend, so all that’s left to do is break.

The next few weeks, Iexist in what feels like a montage. A funeral, sorting through documents, lawyer meetings. The days are split between fast-laning everything I need to know to keep the business running smoothly and dealing with Greg’s constant attempts to sink us. The battle line drawn wasn’t only between us personally; it was all aspects.

As expected, he contests the will for his inheritance, as well as the trust that passes ownership of Masters Financial. His claims range from the old man was senile to Shane and I coerced him into changing it at the last minute. He doesn’t have shit, but it will keep the company’s lawyers busy with litigation for the foreseeable future.

The best part is, I can’t fire him until everything settles down or else I chance giving him ammo. So, I saddle him with a babysitter to make sure he doesn’t fuck over any investments out of spite or funnel clients into a side business or another dramatic-as-fuck scheme.

I also schedule a company photo to forever capture the awkwardness of the entire situation. I blow it up large enough to see his scowl and hang it in the lobby behind reception. The first time I walk through and see it, I can’t help but smile. My bright spot breaking through the cloud of shit.

About a month after the funeral, I step into a bar I normally wouldn’t in search of a face I wouldn’t have given two shits about last month. How I ended up having regular meet-ups with Keaton’s cousins, I have no idea. That’s a lie. I know exactly how it happened. One night, Liam’s frat brothers surpassed the hour-long tolerance window I reserved for them. I told him I was going the fuck back to the house unless we went somewhere else. Enter Chevy Reynolds and a questionable bar downtown.

Lincoln gives a nod as he and I pass, his sights appearing set on a redhead. I sit across from Chevy, who’s leaning back in his chair with a hand and beer bottle propped against his chest.

He eyes me and cocks his head to the side. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I reach for a beer from the bucket in the center of the table.

We went from polite acquaintances to brutally honest bros in a single night of drinking. He might not be Steve Spires—really, no one could ever live up to that legend of a man—but Chevy’s a nice balance to the other aspects of my life. Straightforward and I never have to question his intentions.

“No, seriously.” He waves his hand at my general form. “What are we going for with this exactly? Broken heart with a splash of broken razor?”

I scratch at my stubble with my middle finger and take a swig while he chuckles. More like a lack of sleep and a conscious decision not to shave. Broken-heart chic only lasted the first week. Now, I shower daily and change my clothes as often.

I haven’t talked to Bennett at all since the visitation. I don’t text her or reach for my phone, hoping she did. As far as I’m concerned, I said everything I’d needed to over the past year and a half. My subconscious doesn’t agree though. The dreams have become regular enough that dream me rolls my eyes every time she waltzes into my dream office. She’ll ramble on about cats, or I follow her out the door and into the SF apartment.

A few weeks ago, she moved to LA with Marco. It’s the closest she’s been. Every time she relocates, she creeps closer back to Phoenix. I used to think it meant something, but any pattern will emerge if we twist the details enough to fit.

“Where you been anyway?” he asks. “Lincoln’s been shot down by two women already.”

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