Page 87 of The Front Runner
All I can offer her is a terse nod.
With a deep sigh she starts in, her hand gently scratching at Farrah’s ear. “I didn’t know Hank being your father was even a possibility until the night we drove back from my parents’ place. When you told me what your mom said. The only connection I had to go on was that he’d been a bartender in town. I knew Hank had bartended before he started working here. But Stefan,” she pauses, looking at me imploringly, “there has been a lot more than one bartender in town over the years.”
I know she’s right, but I just keep staring.
“I had no idea if there were more bars or restaurants in town back then. It didn’thaveto be Neighbors. I suspected, but what was I supposed to do? Get your hopes up when it could be nothing? Tell Hank, who is almost like family to me, that maybe I was on to something?”
“Yes, Mira. Either of those options would have been preferable.”
Her hands land on her hips, and her eyes swim with sadness. “And who should I have told first? Who is entitled to my completely unfounded hypothesis? I asked you about your mom for more information. Even just her name. And then last night, my plan was to ask Hank if he knew her.”
“Wow, you really had this all planned out.” My voice is cutting. I hate feeling like she was plotting something behind my back.
She ignores the dig, but I don’t miss the tears that spring to her eyes.
“This wassonot any of my business. I was trying to make responsible decisions with big information. It’s not in me to run around spouting a theory without any good evidence. My brain doesn’t work like that. I didn’t know how quickly things between us would”—she sighs and looks up at the puffy clouds overhead—“evolve. I didn’t see you coming, Stefan. Not like this. And I couldn’t tell Hank because that would break your confidence in me. And I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you if I was wrong.” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and she looks away, foot tapping against the ground anxiously. “Believe me when I say that I was trying to protect you.”
“You hurt me anyway.”
Any happy buzz I had before has leached into the ground at my feet. Now, I feel monumentally depressed. I’d have to be an idiot to not see her point. But it doesn’t change the result. She lied to me, kept a secret, and I can’t get over that hurdle. But pain traces her every feature. I want to wrap her in my arms and kiss away every hurt, but my pride won’t let me. The sad little boy inside me won’t allow it.
I lean into that childish side of myself when I respond in a wooden tone, “I… I need some time to wrap my head around everything.” Her lashes flutter in a failed attempt to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. “Thank you for explaining your line of thinking.”
She sucks in air like she can’t breathe. There’s so much pain there, and I hate thinking I caused it for her. I never wanted to hurt Mira, but I’m feeling too fragile to save us both. I want to be able to let it go, but my mother’s betrayal is a wound that’s been freshly ripped open. The truth of the matter is, I’m not in the right headspace to make big decisions. And Mira might be the most important decision I’ve ever had to make.
“Thank you for hearing me out.” Her broken voice is a searing lance to my heart, but I knock it away. I can’t afford a killing blow right now. “I don’t think Loki will require regular checkups anymore, so you won’t have to worry about seeing me.”
“Perfect,” is my quick response.
And I instantly want to take it back. I meant perfect that he’s better, not that I won’t have to see her. That part stings in a way I didn’t expect.
A few minutes ago, she asked me to hear her out, and hope welled in her eyes.
Now, thanks to me, it’s spilling down her cheeks.
30
Mira
It’s beenthe longest week of my life. I’m a shell of myself, and I’m not even succeeding at hiding it. My heartbreak is on my sleeve for everyone to see. I thought foaling season sucked, but getting over what happened between Stefan and me is worse. It’s truly a torment I’ve never known.
I haven’t heard a single thing from Stefan all week. He hasn’t called or texted. And I haven’t either. Giving him space seems like the most grown-up approach at this time.
I wish I could make him see things the way I do, but I’m not one to force things on another person. If I were more like Billie, I’d march over there and browbeat him until he relented. I’m more live and let live, though. If that’s what he thinks of this, of me, then that’s fine. I’ll get over it.
Eventually.
But not soon enough. Because this hurts. I feel like we’ve spent months building a complicated puzzle together, and now he’s taken one piece and hidden it on me. It’s annoying to look at, no matter which way I spin it, what perspective I move to—the puzzle is incomplete.
I’m incomplete.
How it happened is beyond me. All those quiet nights on the barn floor, I guess. All the inappropriate jokes. All the times he asked me on a date. All the times I turned him down.
All the time I wasted when we could have been together.
If I’d said yes, I might have had more time with him before this happened. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all. Maybe it all would have come out more organically if I hadn’t been so fucking stubborn.
Instead, I’m here in the office replaying our interactions and nights together, feeling his hands sliding over my skin, hearing the filthy words spilling from his lips.
