Page 15 of New Year in Kentbury
If Paul can be that brave, then why can’t I?
But I already know the answer. Because this town, this family, this life I’ve built—it would all unravel. My father would disown me. The resort would never recover from the whispers, the judgments. I’d lose everything.
Wouldn’t that be easier, though? To let it all burn?
My hand loosens from the desk, my fingers numb as I stare at the empty doorway. Bishop might be gone, but his words linger, curling around me, suffocating. Paul told his family he is gay. And I’m still here, trapped by the walls I’ve built, terrified of what it would mean to tear them down.
What if I showed them all how I truly failed—not by losing the businesses, but by falling short of the version of me they’ve come to expect? The perfect son. The one who holds it all together, who carries their struggles without complaint, who never falters.
Maybe I could just walk away. Leave it all behind. Finally taste freedom.
Finally figure out who I am.
But that’s not how my story plays out, is it? I don’t even know what comes next, how to navigate this newfound clarity that feels more like a storm than a revelation.
Good for Paul, though. He’s out there, living his truth, owning it.
And me? I’m still trapped in a life I don’t know how to break free from, in a version of myself I can’t seem to let go of.
Chapter Eight
Damian
The warmthof May filters through the study windows, the late afternoon sun painting streaks of gold across the dark wood paneling. It’s the kind of light that usually brings comfort, but today, it feels like a spotlight, exposing every crack in the wallsI’ve built around myself. My father’s chair creaks softly as he leans back, gesturing for me to sit, but I don’t. I can’t. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud, my chest too full of things I can’t say.
“I heard the resort had a strong season,” he says, his tone calm, detached, as if he’s discussing the weather. “You’ve done well, Damian. You should be proud.”
The words feel hollow and distant. I should grab onto them, let them fill the aching void inside me, but they don’t. They never do anymore. “Thanks,” I reply, the word falling flat, devoid of the gratitude I know he expects.
His eyes narrow slightly, studying me the way he always does when he knows something’s off but won’t say it outright. “You’ve been distant lately,” he observes, his voice edging closer to something resembling concern. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
Distant. That’s one way to put it. Skipping family dinners, dodging McKay’s knowing glances, avoiding Bishop altogether. Pulling myself so far out of the orbit of the people who should feel at home that I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way back. And Paul? Paul, who’s out now, living his truth while I stay here, rooted in my silence, unable to even whisper mine.
“I was hoping you’d tell me what we’re going to do with the resort,” I say, my tone sharper than I mean for it to be. I push the conversation back to safe ground, or at least ground that feels less like quicksand. “Ski season’s over, but the clock’s ticking. We can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when we both know it isn’t.”
He doesn’t react right away, just watches me with that measured calm that used to make me feel safe. Now it feels like another weight pressing down on me, another expectation I’ll never meet. “We’ll make adjustments as needed,” he says finally. “There’s no rush, Damian. The resort’s thriving.”
“Thriving?” I laugh, the sound hollow, almost bitter. “For now, maybe. But if we don’t adapt—if we don’t evolve—it won’t last. You know that. I know that. So why aren’t we doing anything about it?”
My father’s expression tightens, just slightly, but enough to tell me I’ve hit a nerve. “You’ve done well, Damian,” he repeats, as if that’s enough to close the subject. “The resort isn’t your only responsibility.”
I take a step closer, my hands curling into fists at my sides, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration. “If I don’t fight for this place, who will? You? Bishop? Knightly? No one else seems to care that we’re running out of time.”
His gaze hardens, but I press on, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “And don’t tell me I should be proud of what we’ve done so far. Proud doesn’t mean shit if we can’t keep it alive.”
“Damian,” he says, his voice firmer now, a warning wrapped in a single word.
But I’m not done. Not yet. “You want to know why I’ve been distant?” My voice cracks, the frustration giving way to something deeper, something raw. “Because I’m fucking tired, Dad. Tired of carrying all of this on my own. Tired of being the one who has to fix everything while everyone else gets to coast. Tired of hearing how I’m a greedy bastard, while no one sees that if I don’t keep an eye on the business, we’ll lose it—forever. And maybe . . . maybe I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. You know how fucking hard is to be the last Kentbury?”
And when I finish, I regret everything I said. All the truths I hadn’t meant to say out loud are hanging in the air. My pulse roars in my ears as I brace myself for his response.
My father leans forward slightly, his hands clasping together as his eyes lock onto mine. “What are you trying to say, Damian?”
I swallow hard, my throat dry, the air in the room too thick to breathe. “I don’t know,” I say finally, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I just . . . I can’t keep doing this. Not like this.”
The only sound is the faint rustle of the curtains as the air conditioner filters through the room. My father doesn’t speak, doesn’t press. And somehow, that’s worse than any reprimand he could have given.
He stiffens, his expression hardening. “You’ve always had a dramatic streak. If this is about the business?—”
