Chapter 29
29
Conrad Strauss
Five Years Ago
I t’s been seven days since Whit got in his car, drove off, and never came back. An entire week without my husband, and I’ve never known pain like this. Not even when I found out my parents were in an accident that ultimately took their life. I can’t breathe. I drag in air, only to have it vanish before it reaches my lungs.
When I call, he doesn’t answer his phone.
I finally caved and drove down to the clinic yesterday, only to find he wasn’t there. He was sick, they told me.
He’s not fucking sick. I know him better than that.
I don’t think he’s coming back.
I think maybe I finally pushed him too far.
I shut him out one too many times, and now I’ve lost him. Lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Lost the one man I love more than life itself. All because I couldn’t swallow my fucking pride and open up to him. Lean on him while grief ripped me to shreds. I thought life couldn’t get worse, couldn’t get any darker, but boy, was I wrong.
It’s a quarter past midnight, and instead of sleeping like I should be, I’m several glasses into this bottle of whiskey, and I’ve been torturing myself for the last several hours with all the pictures Whit and I have collected over the years. Pictures of our early days, working on this very ranch. Holidays. Our wedding. Times when we were so fucking happy. Moments when his love for me shone brightly. Back when things felt easy.
Back when I wasn’t failing.
Shoving the memories back into the box in the closet, I slam the door shut before taking another swig off the bottle. I don’t even feel it as the amber liquid burns a path down my throat. I’m so far past numb, I can’t feel anything even if I tried.
I miss Whit.
God, do I fucking miss him.
I want to see him. Hear his voice. Feel his touch. It’s been so long, too long, since we’ve been together.
Grabbing my phone off the dresser, I unlock it and find his contact, hitting call. It’s late, I shouldn’t call, especially since he hasn’t answered any of the other times I’ve tried, but I’m desperate.
I need to fix this.
Fix us.
I need my husband back. I need to make him feel loved and appreciated. Need to apologize for all the hurt I’ve caused. I need to be a better man for him, because he deserves that.
When voicemail connects, I punch the end call button and try again.
And again.
Then one more time for good measure.
By the time the voicemail picks up for a third time, my blood is boiling, and I can’t fucking take it anymore. I throw the phone across the room, letting out a guttural scream as the device collides with the wall, shattering into a hundred little pieces, just like my life.
Emotions clutch at my chest, strangling me until it feels like I can’t breathe. Dropping to my knees, my hands lying flat on the floor, my shoulders shake as sobs wrack my body.
Fuck.
This can’t be happening.
I lost him. I lost Whit.
I fucked everything up.
He deserves so much better than me, and he finally saw that.
“Fuck!”
I don’t know how long I sit here on the floor, all the hurt pouring out of my body through my eye sockets, but by the time they dry up, I feel hollow. I have to get him back. I have to fix this.
Standing up, I scrub a hand down my face, feeling a new sense of purpose. Taking one final swig from the whiskey, I set it on the dresser before allowing my legs to carry me through the house until I’m in the kitchen. Opening one of the drawers on the island, I find exactly what I’m looking for; a blank piece of paper and a pen. I sit down at the dining room table and I write.
I don’t read back through what I’ve written, I just get it all out. Every last thought and feeling. I lay it all out for him with a plan to deliver it to him by morning.
I can’t lose him.
I’m going to get him back if it’s the last thing I do.
Present Day
There’s a pounding on the front door.
I consider ignoring it.
I consider going into my bedroom and locking the door, climbing under the covers and hiding. It’s something I’ve never done in my life. At least not in my adult life, but fuck if I don’t want to today, because I know exactly who it is, and I know exactly what he’s here for.
Opening the front door and letting him in feels like accepting defeat. It feels like admitting that I’ve lost Whit again, and I don’t know if I can do that.
But because this is Shooter and he doesn’t know how to take a hint, he doesn’t relent. Another pound sounds at the door, followed by, “Let me in, old man! I know you’re in there, and I’m not against breaking a window and climbing in that way.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble as I walk across the living room, flinging the door open.
“That’s more like it,” he mutters, way too fucking cheerfully.
“I’m not in the fucking mood, Shooter.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” he teases. “I’m great at that.”
Looking at him with a deep scowl on my face, I leave him standing in the entryway as I make my way back to the kitchen. There’s nothing in here for me, but I can’t fathom standing another second in the living room while Shooter tries to goad me into talking to him. Unlucky for me, the little shit follows me.
“So, what’s your plan?” he asks, opening my pantry and scanning the shelves like he fucking owns the place. Grabbing a bag of sour cream and cheddar chips, he digs in, shoving a chip into his mouth.
“My plan?”
“To get your man back,” he clarifies as he grabs a Coke out of the fridge. “What do you have in mind?”
“Why on earth would I discuss this with you?”
“Because I’m his friend,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “And I could be of assistance to you in winning him back. Obviously.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Of course, I’ve talked to him. I’m here to get his stuff, aren’t I?”
“Did he say he wanted me to win him back?” My heart practically leaps out of my chest at the little sliver of hope that gives me.
Shooter shakes his head, shattering that little bit of hope just as quickly as it bloomed. “Nah, he didn’t say that.” He shoves another chip in his mouth. “But I know him, and he does.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Graham,” I growl.
He chuckles. “I’m not fucking with you. If I truly believed my friend wanted nothing to do with you, I’d stay out of it. But that’s not the case.”
“What if you’re wrong?” There’s a vulnerability to my words that makes me wince. “The first time he left, I should’ve fought for him. But I was hurt, and too stuck in my own grief to do what I should’ve done. What if this time he doesn’t want me to fight for him? What if this was his final straw?”
He thinks about what I said for a moment. I can’t read his face. “Do you regret not chasing after him back then?” he finally asks.
“Of course, I do. It’s my biggest regret.”
“And if you could go back to that time, would you do things differently?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Okay, well, now you have that chance,” he drawls. “Don’t let it pass you by this time.”
I’m quiet for a moment, taking in what he’s saying. The idea of fighting for him and having him turn me down makes me want to puke, but the idea of making the same mistake twice and losing him because of my own shit is a knife to my chest.
Shooter’s grin spreads. “So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to fight for your man?” he asks, excitement painting his features.
“Yes, Shooter,” I deadpan, his giddiness making me uncomfortable. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to get my husband back like I should’ve done the first time.”
“Fuck yes!” he booms. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about! Let’s do this!”