22. All By Myself （Ethan）
ALL BY MYSELF (ETHAN)
W ith Hattie gone, the days are an inhuman blur.
One miserable minute stretches into a wretched week.
They drag by, wretched and empty, torturing me with knowing I created this mess.
I lost control.
Even my phone never stops ringing unless I shut the damn thing off.
Blackthorn Holdings in crisis. A legacy that makes me soul sick.
Every executive officer desperately trying to reach their MIA head.
Mom, calling to apologize, trying to talk me down from becoming a different kind of bastard after revealing I basically am one.
Dad, echoing everything she says, and asking if he needs to step in and appoint a stand-in for the company while I’m ghosting it.
I don’t care.
Not my problem.
Not my fucking circus.
It’s hard enough to wake up sober and grind coffee after finding out your entire life’s been a lie.
I’m not here to sort out my parents’ guilty conscience.
Mom never gave me this much attention in her life.
Dad isn’t even my blood father, and I think he knows the company won’t be mine in a few more weeks.
That was only locked in if I married Hattie—if I worked one more fucked up little puzzle crafted by Gramps like a trained monkey—and since I haven’t so much as called the office, I’m expecting my CEO title to be stripped any day now.
That’s fine.
Better to get it over and done with.
Then I can stand to look at my phone again.
Hell, what do I care if it falls apart without me?
I have no special talent in real estate. I’m still inexperienced.
Blackthorn Holdings was always the boulder Gramps shouldered, and he’s not passing it off on me anymore.
I don’t want his passion.
I don’t want his life.
Not after he lied to me, along with everyone else.
The old man used me.
This warped marriage game was just his way of rubbing it in one last time, I think. Making sure I behaved like a well-trained dog from beyond the grave, humoring him even when he wasn’t alive to see it.
Fuck that.
It’s my turn to figure out what I want.
Without Blackthorn Holdings, I still have a decent nest egg—enough to escape back to San Diego or Scottsdale or maybe the dark side of the moon.
Wherever the Blackthorn name means nothing.
Hell, I could start my own venture without needing much outside capital.
Margot was never sold on me taking over the company after Gramps died. She always thought I could do something else with my life.
Here’s my chance.
I lean back in my seat, swirling my drink before I take a sip.
There’s nothing obvious beyond my next buzz, and that’s the problem.
Nothing but a black hole of possibilities.
But I’m not thinking straight.
Not yet.
In a matter of days, my life ended and the ground crumbled under my feet.
Do I have enough left to care about building a career? A future?
I finish the bourbon, feeling the fire sweeping through my gut.
Dad passed on his love of good scotch and bourbon. One of the few things he did, considering we’re complete strangers genetically.
My lips curl sourly.
Why must human beings be so fucking complicated?
Ares lifts his head from his place on the rug in front of the fireplace and whines.
It’s like he can read my thoughts. His ears perk hopefully.
Now that I’m officially an outcast, I’ve gone full hermit. We’re holed up in this little cabin just outside Portland while I plot my next move.
It’s secluded enough to spend my days walking the dog and forgetting the world. The quiet nights among the tall trees and the glittering shore below the hills are for getting shit-faced drunk and forgetting the Ethan Blackthorn I’ve been.
At least, for trying.
Only, forgetting isn’t nearly as easy as I thought.
Not when you’re haunted by a thousand regrets and the sad face of one beautiful woman no drink can banish from my mind.
“You still miss her?” I ask the basset hound, my voice slurred. The sound might shock me if I were sober, but I’m not. “I’m over it, boy. It wasn’t even real.”
Another huge face-eating lie.
Another reason I had to move the hell out of my own house.
As big as the place is, I knew every room would still smell like Pages.
Every surface would glow with faded passion, the unwelcome memories of me bending her over them.
When I came back inside, I expected to find her there, staring at the remnants of glass on the floor with horror and dismay.
But no, after dragging myself in from the storm sometime after sunrise, she was gone.
Smart girl.
I’m better off away from that place and all thoughts of an existence built on lies.
Ares clearly feels differently.
He’s pining after her, looking around and whining every few hours, waiting for the girl who delivered pets and too many treats to come walking through the door.
My phone buzzes and I manhandle it with a groan.
Just a text this time.
I already guess it’s Margot before I see her name.
Damn near everyone else is blocked or being ignored. But Margot was just as blindsided by the big reveal as me. She shares a sliver of my pain, and that’s why I open it and read.
Still alive?
You might be the biggest idiot ever born, but you’re still my brother. Call me so I don’t have to say that again.
Damn.
Ignoring my sister is the second worst part of this grim isolation after my drunken tantrum sent Hattie packing.
Idiot? No, that’s too polite.
I am a colossal, demonic fuckup.
Snarling, I drag a hand over my face and pour myself another drink.
Ares watches me with his judgmental big brown eyes.
“What? You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” I grumble. “Good news, you’ll see Margot again at some point. But she’s not coming here while I’m in this state. Sit tight, pal.”
Smacking his lips, he grumbles and settles his snout on his massive paws, turning his face away from me.
I wish I could shut out everything so easily.
Yes, being here feels better than being haunted at home—but barely. Hattie would have loved this place.
The old paperbacks lining that old bookshelf in the corner.
They’re mostly cheap pocket paperbacks from the eighties and nineties. They would’ve spoken to her, especially the romances with their raunchy covers of long-haired princes and women in half-ripped dresses.
Even the dry nonfiction texts about fishing and bird watching have their charm. They’ve been read so many times their bindings are loose.
She probably would’ve found a way to fix them, knowing the soft spot she has for old words.
‘Pre-loved books,’ she calls them.
But it’s not just the books she’d adore.
She’d have loved the quiet, too. The fireflies coming out at night to dance like tiny stars.
They’re rarer now than I remember back when I was a kid, but that’s probably the same story everywhere, not just Maine.
And she would’ve laughed at the way I can never get Ares to make room for me in bed, the old dog stubbornly occupying my spot every time I’m not in it.
She had the magic touch. That lazy pile of bones would always move for her.
Pathetic.
My hand tightens around the glass. I resist the urge to hurl it into the fireplace.
I’m not used to missing anyone like this.
When Gramps died, it was a blow, but it was also natural.
And after his betrayal, it can’t compare to the way I miss her.
It’s a different kind of ache, chewing its way under my skin, and I can’t dig it out.
There’s so much of her imprinted on my life, even though she’s only been part of it for a few months.
Still, breaking it off was the right move.
I couldn’t stand to hurt her as I turned into a berserker, smashing everything I thought I knew like an angry bull.
Hattie Sage doesn’t fit my ruined world.
Not the one where I’m done being some weird, emotional pawn of Gramps.
She doesn’t need to hang around for the wreckage.
No one deserves that.
We both need to get the hell on with our lives, and I need time alone.
Time to figure out my life and what the hell I want to do with it now that everything I thought I knew is a lie.
Keeping Hattie around would only be a distraction.
A bitter reminder of Leonidas Blackthorn’s delusions.
Sighing, I drag another hand through my hair and move over to the small desk.
My laptop is still open from the last time I tried to cobble together some sort of viable business plan.
I have ideas, but it’s refining them that’s the hard part, figuring out which ones might have a real place in the market.
I have tabs of spreadsheets I can’t remember and so many conversations with AI open the bots might as well be talking to each other.
Not a rational way to hash out anything. But you can only mope around getting blasted out of your mind for so long.
I need a fucking future to cut the anchor of the past.
I scan through my options again, the bolder ones that would take me to new places far away from here.
I had an idea for a new platform where people can stream health, cooking, and wellness videos, but it’s not enough to build an entire company around. That would have to be a side project.
What about the high-end rental market?
With that, I’m not starting at ground zero. Plus, I’ve seen a few articles about the meteoric success of the Rory brothers and Higher Ends in the Midwest.
They’ve done well for themselves, pushing through a whole heap of drama.
Could I do something similar in Upstate New York or New England?
Niche markets for luxury vacation properties are everywhere.
Nothing’s fleshed out yet, but it’s a spark.
The germ of an idea I could feed, maybe.
It doesn’t excite me, but nothing has since I thought I was taking over Blackthorn Holdings.
Correction: since I thought I’d have six more months with Pages.
She hasn’t tried to contact me since the blowout.
I don’t blame her, of course, considering the way I chased her out of my house.
Every time Margot pings me with a text, I can’t help wishing it was her best friend instead.
Fucking stupid.
I don’t regret breaking things off with her.
I can’t regret it.
I couldn’t keep her tied down a second longer, let alone shackled to a man who can’t tell up from down.
I force myself to drink some water to mitigate the next hangover, doing my best to dredge up more about the outlook for local rentals.
Before I get too deep, a lawyer’s email lands in my Inbox.
Daley’s guy.
I think it’s the third time he’s sent an URGENT subject line about the status of the ski resort project. And I’m tempted to ignore it again.
With things at Blackthorn Holdings being so tenuous, it really grates.
There are other people in the organization who can deal with Cooper Daley and his golden retriever energy.
Best to establish that as the precedent before I revoke my right to inherit the estate.
Jackie Wilkes might get flustered for the first time in her life when she finds out.
Hell, everyone will.
I can’t bring myself to care.
Still.
The email sits there, the opening lines accusing me of not doing my job in perfectly polite, formal legalese.
My eyes stick to the preview, annoyed.
We sincerely hope you will resolve the issues regarding your future at Blackthorn Holdings. As you know, contractually this could pose a serious obstacle to moving forward.
In other words, get off your ass. Or at least confirm where everyone stands.
Yesterday, another email came through from Blackthorn’s acquisitions about the resort project.
I barely glanced at it until now, and only because Daley’s lawyer annoys me.
It doesn’t take long to notice there’s a troubling wildlife report and history attached.
Naturally, I ordered a thorough investigation of the property before disappearing, and the results have come back.
I flick back through the many-page document now.
From what I can tell, it isn’t the first time Blackthorn Acquisitions looked at this land.
Gramps originally considered a lodge there twice. He even thought about buying the adjacent land now owned by Daley.
He never moved forward due to environmental concerns.
Apparently, they were bad enough to shelve the whole idea.
That poses some huge glaring questions about Daley’s scheme, but I’m not the one making the decisions anymore.
He latched on to this because it was personal, his desire to make amends, but he approached the CEO of Blackthorn Holdings and his deal was with me.
Fuck, at least Cooper tried it play it straight.
I can respect his willingness to look his past sins in the eye and try to move past them.
As far as annoying assholes on my personal shitlist go, Cooper Daley’s ranking has plummeted.
I should tell Daley’s lawyer I’m out of the game and let the chips fall where they may.
Regardless, I’ll leave him something workable, whether the ski resort moves forward or not. A final goodbye, tying up loose ends.
A few weeks ago, the report would’ve been a fire-breathing dragon.
Now, with my life blown to shit, it feels more like an angry kitten, scratching frantically at the uncertain void of my future.
If only I knew what the fuck I wanted.
But even that feels out of reach now.
It’s going to be a very long road back to sanity and I sigh.
Ares mirrors me, heaving a tired groan as he twists his head in his sleep.
Outside, a few stray seagulls land on the deck, looking for scraps.
All the birds in the world to chase, and he’s oblivious, peacefully leaving bird problems for someone else.
I wish I had it so easy.
I snort and slam my laptop shut.
The last bourbon courses through my blood now, punching fire into my brain.
I’m old enough to know this bad habit doesn’t help worth a damn.
No amount of booze will erase my problems.
No drink can make me forget.
The last time I faced tragedy, drinking made it worse.
Except I was a kid then. I got blackout drunk because I didn’t know any better.
If Gramps hadn’t found me, if he hadn’t dragged me off the floor and sent me away, I might have died face down in my own vomit.
At the time, it felt like a gift.
A second chance at a freedom I never deserved, but I clung to desperately.
This time, there’s nobody around to save me from myself.
I have to know when to quit, when to put the bottle down and flush out my system.
Especially when it feels like Gramps was sweeping his guilt under the goddamned rug.
Once again, he failed, and it curdles my stomach.
I stagger up, walking to the sliding door and into a summer evening free from woes.
Out here, the fireflies play and the crickets chirp like a band.
The stars shine full force, so bright I feel like a shadow.
I haven’t felt this dazed and hopeless since Taylor’s death.
Unlike then, I don’t think there’s anything I can do to outrun this.
I’ve spent my whole life trapped as somebody else.
If I want to break the cycle, I need to meet the real Ethan Blackthorn, but I don’t know how.