He’d backed out of the hardware store that afternoon and never looked back. Erin didn’t understand and he didn’t have time to explain it to her. One more night in that house would have killed him—one way or another.
Ward was rough on Erin, too, but never to the brutal degree he hurt Harrison. His father despised him to a point no amount of therapy could fix. He didn’t know why, and that sort of cruelty would always be one of life’s mysteries. There had been no grace, no mercy, under that roof while he’d lived there.
At least for Erin, there had been moments of peace. Moments when their father would simply gripe and throw things rather than raise his fists.
He pushed open the door to his childhood bedroom and his stomach dropped. His gaze swept over the marks on the wall. Just like his scars, they hadn’t healed.
Why didn’t she paint it? He’d been gone for ten years. She emptied the whole damn house. Why the hell wouldn’t she gut this room first?
Because you’re not her mess to clean up…
He backed out of the room, careful to not touch anything or disturb more ghosts of his past. When he left the house, he was empty.
He sat in his car, staring at the garage door as pressure built in his skull. His jaw locked and his breathing turned unsteady as a burning fury of rage boiled inside of him.
“Fuck!” he shouted and punched the steering wheel.
He fished his phone out of his pocket and stamped out a text.
* * *
Could really use some company…
* * *
He stared at the screen, waiting for any movement, but got nothing.
He should just go. Fuck the store. Fuck the sale. Fuck this place.
He glanced at his bag in the back seat. Screw his clothes. He had his laptop and could have the hotel ship whatever was left.
Backing out of the driveway, he sped through the back roads on auto-pilot, not stopping when he passed the hotel or hesitating when he reached the outskirts of town.
His car idled at the exit for the interstate. If he shut his eyes, he could already smell the exhaust of city traffic and feel the stampede of New Yorkers bustling by. His foot lifted off the brake and his phone buzzed.
Mariella’s contact flashed on the screen, and he debated if he should even open the text. What the hell were they doing anyway? He had no business disrupting her life when he knew he couldn’t promise her any sort of a future here.
He thought of the suitcase still sitting in his hotel room. Mariella would know he left in a frantic rush if he asked the hotel to ship his belongings.
“Shit.” He snatched the phone off the seat and opened the text, unable to leave without giving her a proper goodbye.
* * *
My dad had a heart attack. We’re at the hospital.
* * *
All thoughts of leaving vanished as he backed down the exit and whipped his car around, heading directly toward the hospital, back to Mariella.
CHAPTER 19
Harrison shoved through the double doors leading to the ICU and spotted Mariella sitting alone on a chair pushed up against a wall. She didn’t notice him at first, and his heart broke at the sight of tear tracks on her cheeks and the notable exhaustion weighing down her shoulders.
His steps slowed and she looked up, her expression lost in a sea of disbelief. Something painful shot through him, a poignant need to hold and protect her, followed by the logic of knowing life sometimes took unfair tragic turns, and he might not be able to save her from this. In that split second, all his hopes and dreams turned to just one—let her dad be okay. He desperately wanted to be her anchor, but at the same time, he feared drowning under so many palpable emotions.
Before uttering a word, he dropped to his knees and hugged her close. She sucked in an audible breath, and he heard her body shake as much as he felt it. A withered tissue twisted through her fingers as she worried her hands.
“How is he?”
“He just got out of surgery. My mom’s with him now, but we don’t know anything yet.”
Pushing her hair away from her face, he pressed a kiss to her worried brow. “Everything will be all right. I’ll stay with you.”
She sniffled and wiped at her red-rimmed eyes. “He was fine. Patrick checked him over and said it was probably nothing. Then we got home, and he was standing in the den talking when he suddenly collapsed.”
He moved to the seat beside her and held her hands in his, the crumpled tissue fisted in her palm. “I’m sure the doctors are doing everything they can to help him.”
“I can’t reach Giovanni. He has a show tonight, and he’s not answering his phone. I left him five messages but I don’t want to freak him out and—”