Thirteen
Sarah
Hollie checked the men’s restroom for Peter when she went to the bathroom. On her journey back to the table, she looked up and caught my eye, giving her head a light shake.
I deflated. Where on earth was he?
Peter was a grown adult and capable of caring for himself, but worry had completely overtaken my brain.
He had been gone for thirty-five minutes.
Bea’s set had come and gone, and the night wasn’t far from ending.
I had already searched the restaurant for him and found him nowhere.
He wasn’t picking up his phone either. If he had gotten turned around, he would’ve asked someone for help.
Hollie eased into her seat across from me. “I even opened the door to the men’s bathroom and called his name. He’s not in there.”
My heart turned in my chest. “Something’s not right.”
Hollie’s brow furrowed in concern as she nodded. “Yeah, that’s weird.”
“I’m going to look around one more time.”
“Okay.”
I pushed away from my seat and scanned the room, my eyes beginning at the far right wall where he started toward the restroom.
I perused every table and chair, glanced around the front door, and even checked the benches by the hostess’ stand.
And once again, I moved into the second wing of the restaurant, looking around the bar.
Since the last time I checked, a lot of the guests had vacated, and there were far more empty tables than before.
Maybe the lack of people was the reason I finally saw him.
There he sat—tucked at the very end of the bar—against the back wall.
My mouth dropped open when I saw him tip a beer glass and drain the last few drops.
Peter was drinking? I shook my head, blinking because I didn’t believe it.
Peter so rarely drank that the sight of him doing it now shocked me.
My feet propelled me to his spot at the counter, my concern for his safety now muted by a familiar wave of panic.
That sight—a man I loved lifting a beer to his lips—ripped open hidden scars in my heart.
I swallowed against my tight throat. “Peter.”
He looked up, his eyes finding my face with their uncanny ability.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Oh, hey.” His voice was slow, relaxed.
I wrinkled my nose at the smell of him—the sour bread-like scent that permeated my memories. “You’re drinking.”
“And?”
“And that’s weird.”
“I should do it more often.”
“You absolutely should not.”
I scoffed as he lifted his hand over his head, and the bartender called, “Same thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got it.”
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Heat edged into my face as I suppressed simmering anger. “You couldn’t have at least told me where you were going? Where’s your phone?”
“I got your calls.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and slid it onto the counter, wordlessly answering my question with the notification stack that had my name on it. So he’d been ignoring me?
The bartender produced another beer.
“How many have you had?”
He lifted a shoulder. “This is my third.” That seemed like a lot to me.
Of course, Peter would be a light weight because he was a craft-green-smoothie kind of guy, not craft beer.
The rare times he indulged were on date nights where he’d get a glass of wine or a bourbon or something.
Or when he was out with Ben. And considering it had been years since he did either of those things, he needed to slow his pace.
Peter grabbed the glass and started knocking it back.
I paled as fear pierced my heart.
He had a fourth of it down when I yanked his arm. “Peter! You're going to get drunk, chugging it like that.”
“Good. I wanna be drunk.” His words were already running together.
“What is going on? This is not like you.”
His fingers tightened around the cup, his voice so soft and sad that it made me want to cry. “Well, maybe you don’t know me anymore, Sarah. You don’t.” As I deciphered his meaning, he continued, “I have stuff to say.”
My whole body went stiff and my fingers clenched around the back of the barstool.
“You’re not gonna like it. But I can’t keep holding it in.”
A warning flag rose in my heart.
“I…can’t live like this anymore.”
My voice came breathlessly. “Like what?”
“You and me. The way we are. I need some space to figure things out. I’ve been trying to tell you that, but you haven’t been listening.”
I shook my head, fighting to stay focused and sane amid the swelling storm in my chest. “Space to figure what out?”
“Us.”
Us.
With a single word, he’d brought my fears to life. I shook my head, denying the truth swimming around in my chest. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
“Well, maybe not for you. But I need to decide if I really want to be married.”
Ferocity from deep in my gut spewed from my mouth. “Oh, we are married. Whether you like it or not.”
“It takes two people.”
“What are you insinuating? That you want a divorce?”
He raised his hands in innocence. “No, not necessarily. I just need space to know for sure.”
Even though I had thought the same thing many, many times, I dug in my heels, putting up a fight. “This marriage is not up for debate, Peter Thompson.”
I glanced at the bartender who was throwing curious glances in our direction. “Pay your tab. We’re leaving.”
He pulled another long drag from his cup. “I’m not done.”
“Yes, you are.” I wrapped my hand around his forearm, giving him a tug.
But he reacted, his big strong hand grabbing my forearm and squeezing.
He didn’t hurt me, but the touch wasn’t friendly.
I took a sharp breath and looked him in the eyes.
He stared into mine, desperation oozing through his irises.
He leaned forward, drawing his head closer to mine as he trapped my arm out to the side.
A thin layer of moisture pooled in his eyes.
“Do you remember what you told me the night we got married?”
I blinked, stunned by the turn in the conversation.
He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You told me you wanted ten thousand adventures.” His lips trembled. “Ten thousand.” He grimaced as he laughed, but the tears in his eyes deepened. “As if we’d live long enough to have that many.”
My own vision started to blur.
Still holding my arm, he lifted his other hand and found the curve of my cheek.
Too shocked to react, I stood like a statue, afraid he’d draw his hand away if I moved.
His fingers trailed down the slope of my neck then came back to my face, his warm thumb swiping over the moisture on my lips.
For one second, I thought he would kiss me. I couldn’t even breathe.
But he blinked and pulled his hand away. “I can’t give you any more adventures, Sarah.”
“No—”
He squeezed, and a small pain shot into my hand. “You’re not listening.”
“How could you say that? All I have done is listen, Peter.”
“You’re hearing me, but not listening and there’s a difference.
Every damn time I try to talk to you you tell me why I shouldn’t feel the way I feel or why I shouldn’t be so depressed or why I should just suck it up and do the things I don’t want to do.
You tell me life is hard and at least I’m alive. ”
I opened my mouth but he continued.
“Please, just listen to me this one last time.”
I blinked. Last time.
He whispered, his face close to mine. “I don’t want to ride a fake bull or kick around a ranch.
I don’t want to listen to an audiobook or sweat my ass off in a hammock.
I don’t want to wake up early for a sunrise I can’t see.
I don’t want to be with my family and fight every second to be the old Peter that everyone used to love.
I don’t want to work for Chip and fumble around with technology while my clients watch.
I don’t want to hear about the stupid list ever again.
And, worst of all, I don’t want to be a husband.
You know why? Because every second I’m plagued by the knowledge that I should be more.
I should do more. I shouldn’t be such a coward.
That you deserve better. But I’m drowning and no one is listening. So I’m done trying, Sarah. I’m done.”
He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. He doesn’t mean it.
The words “you don’t mean that” were on my tongue when a loud “Peter” filled the air.
To my horror, three cowboys rounded the end of the bar, making their way in our direction.
Peter brushed his cheek over his shoulder, swiping away the evidence of his unraveling.
Then he turned, his fake smile in place.
I stiffened as Cody walked right up behind our chairs, tossing me an impish grin that made my stomach curl. He playfully grabbed Peter’s shoulders, the motion rough with stifled aggression. “This guy’s got the right idea. I could use a beer myself.”
Peter picked up his cup again.
Harlan leaned against the bar a couple seats down, rapping the countertop with his palms as his eyes scanned the liquor wall. “It’s Saturday night, isn’t it, boys?”
“Yes, sir-ree.” Cody crooned.
Wordlessly, Rudy slid into a seat.
The bartender came back. “Hey fellas, what can I get you?”
Rage roiled beneath my surface as I denied my heart’s need to replay and analyze Peter’s words. So I hissed below my breath. “I’m leaving.”
“You sure? We’re gonna have a great time,” Cody said. I didn’t spare him a glance, aching that my husband couldn’t see the way Cody leered at me. What would he do if he knew?
Peter said, “Go ahead. I’ll hitch a ride back with these guys.”
“That is a terrible idea. You’re going to get plastered.”
“Why don’t you worry about you for a change?”
I huffed with hurt then looked at Harlan, whose buttons of his plaid shirt strained against his bulky frame. “Is everyone leaving?”
“Yep. The rest of ‘em are on their way out.”
I turned back to Peter, desperation unfurling in my chest as I whispered, “Please come back with me. Please, Peter.”
He turned toward me, his brown eyes dark and liquid, and he gave me a smile, faking stability for the cowboys looking on. He clapped me on the back as if I was a bro, his previous tenderness evaporating like a really delusional dream. “Nah. I’ll stay. I’ll see you later though.”
My heart, bleeding and reeling, gave up the fight prematurely, leaving him to his devices.
If he wanted to get drunk out of his mind because he thought his life sucked so much, then so be it.
I slid off the bar stool and backed away.
What did it matter to me anyway if he wanted to forget stuff for a night? Who cared? Whatever.
But a hundred memories that shaped my past lurched up in my heart and churned my insides with anxiety. I shook my head, trying to remember that Peter was human. And he was hurting. That was all. He would drink, have a hangover, and maybe have a rational conversation tomorrow.
Tag, Wren, Hollie, the girls, and Cooper were loitering around the table as Bea spoke to a few new fans from the audience. The stage was dark and quiet and soft country music now played over the speakers.
Hollie looked up with a frown. “Are the cowboys at the bar?”
“Yep.”
Cooper’s gaze darted that way and our conversation from the trail ride came flooding back to me.
I hated that Peter would play a part in every one of Cooper’s bunkmates coming back to Meadowbrook smelling of alcohol.
Did Peter know there was a rehabbed individual on the ranch?
Maybe he wouldn't have partook if he did…
not that that knowledge had stopped the cowboys.
As if she could see the internal war waging in him, Hollie gently put her hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
He pulled his eyes away from the bar and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Do they have a car to drive?” I asked.
Hollie nodded. “They’ve got Harlan’s truck.”
I fought a swallow down my tight throat as I followed them out to the parking lot and stood at the back door of Tag’s truck, waiting for him to emerge and unlock it. Over and over and over, I told myself that Peter would be okay, but his words shook the ground beneath my feet.
“I can’t give you any more adventures, Sarah.”
Even though I dug deep for arguments, my heart couldn’t find any. Because he was right, I couldn’t force him to stay. I couldn’t force him to keep trying. And I didn’t even want to.
“I’m done trying, Sarah. I’m done.”
Suddenly, Bea was there, gripping my shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
I lifted my head and a rogue tear left my eye. Honesty slipped from my lips. “No.”
The truck fired up.
“Where’s Peter?” She shifted sleepy Wren to her opposite hip.
“He’s—at the bar with the cowboys.”
Her eyes widened and I was thankful I didn’t have to explain right then and there. Bea knew me. She knew Peter. She understood. “Does Tag need to go get him?”
“No.”
She gave a soft nod. “Then let’s get you home.”