Page 80 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
But right now, that ability is thoroughly absent in my soul.
“Were you ever gonna tell them about me?” he snaps. Hardness coats his face, and the only tell of his agitation is the way his chest rises and falls with his staggered breathing.
“I…I planned on telling them if they asked when they are older. When they could decide if they wanted to find you.”
Storm hums.
“And if theyneverasked? If they lived their lives thinking there was a man out there who knew of their existence but chose to stay away? What would you do then?”
There’s so much hurt and outrage lacing the words, and I can’t look at him. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Ishouldn’tfeel guilty.
“Itried,” I plead, then suck in a breath, remembering one of the last things he said to me.
Don’t beg.
I feel sick.
“You didn’t try hard enough,” he spits.
“You made it impossible!”
“You can figure out how to go to Harvard with two kids, but you aren’t resourceful enough to make sure IknewI was going to be a father? Fuck outta here with that.”
“Storm—”
“Why didn’t you put me on the birth certificates? Were you unsure? Were you fucking around on me? What was it, Shae?”
I make a horrible sound in my throat, unable to form words all of a sudden. It’s like I’m choking, my tongue going thick in my mouth.
“What? Can’t talk now? You were talking big shit earlier today, and now you’re mute?”
I shake my head, a weak attempt at grounding myself.
“Can we take a breath?—”
“Goddamnit, Shae! Youerasedme. You taught our children that I don’t fucking exist!” he yells, standing abruptly and grabbing the nearest object, which happens to be an avant-garde vase. It smashes into a million shards when he throws it against the wall near the front door.
I squeak, pulling into myself, hiding.
The room goes quiet, the only sounds our agitated breaths.
This is much worse than I thought it’d go.
After a full minute, Storm speaks in a voice so soft, I almost miss it.
“That’swhy I’m so fucking pissed off at you, Shae. You didn’t justnottell me. I can almost forgive you for that. But you carved me out as if I never existed in the first place. And that fuckinghurts.”
Unshed tears have my nose burning, and a headache blooms in my left temple.
“Storm,” I start. “I don’t— I didn’t know what?—”
“When did you know?”
His soft question lands between us like a flash-bang, but when I look at him, his face doesn’t hold the rage I expect.
Instead, there’s something like horror. Regret.
Grief.
