48. Kaitlyn
FORTY-EIGHT
Kaitlyn
MY FATHER IS DYING.
I wish I could say that hearing Went say it made me sad. Hurt me somehow but it didn’t. I’m not sad. I’m not in pain. I feel the way I always feel when I think of him.
I feel empty.
Remembering that I saw a discrete sign pointing down a hallway situated behind Silver’s hostess podium, I hurried my way through the crowded dining room as fast as I could, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Grateful for the distraction that possibly breaking my neck provided, I made my way to the front of the restaurant. When I got there, I found what I was looking for—a small, discrete sign that said powder room , mounted to the wall.
Relieved that Silver was on the phone and didn’t notice me, I slipped down the hall as quickly and quietly as I could before stepping into what is undoubtedly the fanciest bathroom I’ve ever seen.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the female bathroom attendant says with a polite incline of her head.
“Good evening.” I barely managed more than a mumble before I stepped into a stall and lock the door.
I’m pretty sure that was a lifetime ago.
Perched on a pristine, white porcelain toilet lid, I listen to people come and go around me. Women gossiping quietly while they freshen their lipstick. The quiet rush of water while they wash their hands before going back to their tables.
All the while, I sit here and think about the mess I’ve made of things.
Again.
You should’ve left Boston when Went told you to. You should’ve packed up and ran like you always do. Better yet, you should’ve just said no when he asked you to marry him, altogether. You should’ve done the right thing and sent him away without you. Stayed in Barrett and married Brock. Taken your punishment.
And now my father wants me to come home. Probably so he can look me in the eye and tell me how everything that’s gone wrong in his life is my fault, one more time.
You killed my wife.
You killed my son.
It should’ve been you.
If my father really is dying, he’d want to make sure I knew. That I didn’t forget. That he’d have one more opportunity to destroy whatever small bit of happiness I’ve been able to carve out for myself before he did.
Do you think he loves you?
Is that what he told you?
He doesn’t love you.
He can’t love you.
No one can.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Standing, I press a hand against my stomach and close my eyes, concentrating on the rise and fall of it with each breath to reassure myself that I still can.
You’ll go home, Kait. You’ll go home and give your father his dying wish and then after that you’ll be free.
I’ll go back to the table and tell Went I’ve changed my mind about dinner. I’ll order an Uber and I’ll go home. After that, I’ll book the next flight to Helena. Whatever my father wants, it won’t take more than a day or two. I’ll be home in time for Conner and Henley’s wedding and after that, I’ll tender my resignation at the center and tell Went that Boston is his. That I give up. That I’m leaving.
Plan formed, I open my eyes. Reaching down, I flush the toilet to cover up the fact that I’ve been sitting in this stall for the last fifteen minutes, having a nervous breakdown before opening the door. Crossing the room to the bank of marble sinks, I note that the bathroom attendant is gone.
You’ve been in here so long, she probably forgot about you and decided to take her ? —
“I should’ve known it was you.”
Even though I’ve only heard it once before and not for years, I’d recognize her voice anywhere. The back of my neck instantly tightens and my recently quieted stomach starts to roll and pitch again.
Looking up, I see Went’s mother, glaring at me from an ornate brocade upholstered chair, stationed in the small lounge near the exit.
Calm, Kait. Stay calm.
You’ve faced her once. You can do it again.
Now that she has my attention, Astrid gives me a slow appraising look, taking in my designer dress and expensive shoes. “When Wentworth told me he was seeing someone, I dared to hope she’d be someone I’d find… appropriate.” She flicks another look at my shoes, the corner of her mouth curling in a slight, cruel smile before she lifts it to my face. “But that boy has always loved a charity case."
Heart hammering in my chest, I call on my inner Henley again, giving her a cool, appraising smile of my own before turning off the water. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Hawthorne.” Pulling my own towel from the neatly folded stack, I use it to dry my hands. “But I’ve been away from our table for far too long.” Dropping my damp towel in the receptacle under the sink, I make a show of fixing my hair in the mirror before making my way to the exit. “Went will come looking for me if I?—”
Astrid shoots to her feet, angling herself in front of the door before I can use it to get away from her. “You never learn, do you?” she hisses at me, her cruel smile tinged with disgust. “My son is a Hawthorne, whether he cares to acknowledge that fact or not. It’s a privilege he enjoys when it suits him but he refuses to accept that with that privilege comes certain responsibilities—responsibilities he absolutely delights in ignoring.” A slim, expertly drawn brow arches over her slightly narrowed gaze. “The least of them not being to marry someone worthy of our name.”
“You married a chef,” I remind her, my tone just as frigid as hers. “Twice.”
When I say it, her mouth snarls as much as the Botox will allow before she slaps me across the face hard enough to send me stumbling back while she screeches at me. “If you think for one second that I’m going to let a disgusting little slut like you get her hooks into my son again, you have?—”
Cheek throbbing, I push my way past her. Managing to wrestle the door open, I leave Went’s screeching mother behind to step into the hall.
And run right into him.