Page 110 of Carry On
I can handle this.
LINCOLN: I never said you couldn’t. I’m just offering to be there.
I know, and I’ve got this.
Likehellyou’vegotthis, the voice commented, loud and overbearing like it had been all day and all night.
Fuck, I needed a drink.
Or ten drinks.
Maybe I’d just go drink in another bar and never show up for lunch.
Stopping on the sidewalk, I sighed and ran a hand through my long hair. I couldn’t do that. I’d promised Peter I’d do this lunch. I owed him it. I owed him a lifetime of memories.
Or maybe his memories are better off without you,the voice said.
Oh, it was going to be a long day.
Calhoun’swas a little hole-in-the-wall Irish tavern that Peter picked. The kid wasn’t old enough to drink but thought the name was fate or some shit like that. I envied his happy optimism. I wanted a shred of his excitement for this meeting, but I couldn’t muster it.
Meeting up with them meant pretending everything was okay. It was the whole reason I’d left in the first place. I couldn’t maintain that facade. It was too exhausting. I didn’t know how to smile and pretend like I wasn’t crumbling under the ever-present pressure of the world.
And yet, here I was, inviting in those same circumstances all over again.
They didn’t need my dark and twisted mess.
They didn’t need me.
Swallowing my pride, I made myself walk inside.
“Nash!” someone exclaimed, moving to cut me off. I had all of five seconds to register that the man in front of me was my brother before he dragged me in for a hug.
“You look good,” Peter whispered as he squeezed me tighter.
“You got tall, kid,” I said. That much was true. He had at least two or three inches on me, and that was saying something, considering I was pushing six-two. His chestnut hair contrasted with my blond hair, but those Calhoun green eyes were prominent as ever. Broad shoulders, lean muscles, and tanned skin, the kid looked every bit the rancher he wanted to be. Hell, he even had some stubble on that baby face of his.
As much as I loved the kid, the ongoing hug made my skin crawl. I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, hoping to hell he’d get off of me. Thankfully, he did and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“It’s good to see you.” That giant smile on his face as he said the words was infectious.
“Yeah,” I agreed. Despite the growing discomfort in my chest, I did mean it.
“Come on.” He pointed over his shoulder. “We have a tablethis way.”
I followed him through the scattered crowd to a table toward the back. I expected to see Charlotte, but the man next to her? He was a surprise I didn’t want.
He didn’t want you either,the voice reminded me.
Mitchell Calhoun.
My fucking father.
‘Sorry,’ Peter mouthed, which told me this had been the plan all along.
“It’s fine, kid,” I assured him. I knew it wasn’t his doing. That was the thing about Mitchell. No one could make the man do a damn thing he didn’t want. My childhood was literal proof of that. “Mitchell.”
“Patrick,” he replied.
