Page 105 of Craving Consequences

I didn’t forgive Ashley. I never will. But I needed a fresh start because I couldn’t afford a lawyer. I needed to get away from all the people justifying her actions, but I needed to build a bridge with my kid. If I left Ashley, I would never see Bron again. He hated me already. If I waited until he was an adult, we’d never get our footing.

I moved us to Jefferson.

Maybe a mistake. Ashley lasted a year before she took Bron and went back to her parents, proving them right; I wasn’t a good provider, husband or father. Even less so when I refused to go back with them.

She called me every name in the book — neglectful, a shit dad who abandoned his family and let them starve. I was manipulative, using this to punish her. Was it any wonder she had to find other men when I wasn’t satisfying her.

Truth.

In the eight years of marriage, we fucked once. I was drunk. She was there with her hand down my pants. I hated myself afterwards. Didn’t touch alcohol again while we were together.

Staying with her when she blatantly lied to me, trapped me — trapped us both — was out of sheer resolve to do my best with Bron.

So, I did neglect her. That was my fault. But touching her repulsed me on a level I couldn’t bear without feeling my stomach churn.

And that made me a God awful husband. A failure on both ends. It’s why, even after the divorce, I could never bring myself to marry, have a serious relationship or have more kids. It’s why I don’t deserve Everly. Why, if I fall short of what she deserves, I’d never forgive myself.

Still, I did fail her, too.

I put a child into the world that disrespected her. Hurt her. Scared her. He used her and belittled her. I let her down.

I pull up Van’s driveway. All notions of getting a head start evaporating as I park and wait for the other man to shove open his door.

“I’ll pick you up in five,” I tell him.

With a nod, he hops out and sprints down the driveway to the front porch.

Leaving him behind to change, I pull back and turn down the street to my house with Everly a still figure beside me. Only the squeak of window wipers fill the silence, yet there is a tide of words rising up my throat, things I can’t say without damning us both.

It’s a small mercy Everly understands. She gets it. She knows we can never do the thing we did last night again no matter how much we both want it.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her as I cut the engine.

She gives me a nod and watches me slide out. I slam the door, head ducked against the onslaught. My barely dried clothes are drenched all over again as I sprint up the front steps and rush inside, leaving a trail of water behind.

He can’t stay.

The thought rotates through my mind as I stalk into my bedroom.

I am not keeping someone in my house who can behave like that. Someone who ... what even would he have done if she let him in? Would he have hit her? Screamed at her? For what? Because she wouldn’t answer his calls? Because she wouldn’t open the door?

No, I may not have raised him or done a good job of it, but I will not support this. I won’t let him continue to punish Everly because he’s mad at the world.

Dragging on a fresh top and jeans, I bunch up the sleeves and stalk down the hall. I shove open Bron’s door and stop on the threshold.

I have never been allowed inside. Bron hated when I invaded his privacy. But his wants mean nothing as I march inside.

It’s remarkably neat. Practically sparse with a tidy desk under the window with a computer, a bookshelf of books and a stereo and his bed. The only rumpled thing in the space; I imagine he’d bolted out the second he got Everly’s text.

Ignoring it, I move to the closet and yank open the sliding doors. My gaze lands on the hockey bag shoved into one corner, forgotten. The sight of it has my hands hesitating as I remember how much he loved playing hockey. It was the only time I truly saw him happy, until Ashley slept with his coach and got him kicked off the team when his wife found out about the affair. Bron never played again.

But I grab the bag and drag it out. I nearly have a heart attack when I turn to find a figure in the doorway.

“Everly.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “What are you doing?”

She’s wet.

Not soaked. But just damp enough to make my cock hard. Her hair is shiny coils around her small face. Her T-shirt clings to the mounds of her breasts and curls at the hem slightlyto reveal a stretch of skin above the waistband of her cut-off shorts.

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