Page 23 of Missed Sunrise
Resting my head back against the coarse, cool wall, I let the significance of the moment wash over me.
This was it.
This was the moment it would finally hit me that my first relationship was over.
That it failed.
That I failed.
Swallowing against the knot in my throat, I let the regret visit but shooed it away before it could linger.
Time ticked on, and my thoughts drifted to Bree and the new home she shared with the Lott brothers, and my eyes glistened as I thought of the family she’d made for herself in such a short time.
Ah.
I wiped at my face.
There was the sadness. It just wasn’t the type I expected.
After everything, Bree was happy. And I would only let myself be sad about that here, in the darkness of a vacant room.
Once I stepped out of here, I would carry only happiness about Cher finding her home without me.
Something bloomed at that thought, and it felt like a lifeline.
If your other half was happy, the distance to peace was surely closer to reach.
With only the slightest hesitance,I knocked on Dad’s office door before letting myself in.
It was second nature to will the whirring reels of slot machines and the sounds of casino games into the background, and I was relieved I hadn’t lost that instinct during my time away.
Even so, it was still a relief to close the heavy door behind me and silence the din completely.
I’d just finished my errand and had trashed the empty plastic bag on the way to Dad’s office. I’d visited each main set within Fortuna where I’d demanded Austin love me last summer, like some sort of fucked-up ghost of botched relationships past. The Fire and Ice bar, Caffeina—I had to hold my breath the entire time I was in there, lest I be tempted to give them my money—and two of the small stages tucked into corners of the bigger restaurants were all dealt with within half an hour.
It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though, as I got a little kick out of bewildering the people who recognized me each time I squirreled away an Austin talisman—which now basicallyfunctioned as grave markers—in locations that ranged from cleverly inconspicuous to awkwardly bold.
Like the broken drumstick I’d javelined into the middle of the Mardi Gras display in the center of the main lobby.
Dad sat back in his leather chair and grimaced at me as he held his phone pressed to his ear. Such a familiar sight, it was almost calming as I took a seat in front of his desk and cast my gaze around the office. Gone were the rows and columns of security monitors stacked along the wall that I associated with those scant visits here in my youth, the systems having been integrated and downsized to Dad’s three oversized computer monitors on one side of his massive desk.
Finished with my inspection of the room, I returned my gaze to my dad and paused at what I found there.
Frank Desmond had changed, though it had taken me until… this exact moment to realize it.
If I hit the gym more instead of just running off my carb binges on Mississippi’s man-made beaches, we would probably have identical shapes. Dad was a tall, broad-shouldered health nut with a penchant for overworking whose light-brown hair was rapidly graying at the temples.
He plopped his phone down amid the clutter on his desk. “Hi, son.”
I narrowed my eyes at the scattered papers. “Are you okay?” He was usually meticulous about keeping his working and living spaces tidy, so this clutter was disturbing.
His sigh was long, loud, and telling. “I’m fine. Just a long morning.”
Just a few months ago, I would’ve blown this off, but I was going to do things differently this year, dammit. So, I relaxed back in my seat, threaded my fingers together over my stomach, then raised my eyebrows at him.
And initiated a staring contest.
One that he, to my surprise and utter amusement, accepted after only a moment of hesitation.
