A bottle of Château Sedacca waited for him on the counter, and he grabbed it by the neck. Typically, he finished out his evening routine—workout, shower, an hour in his home office—before indulging. But he’d broken more than a few rules tonight. What was one more?
Shane poured the wine as the clock on the wall chimed the hour, pulling his thoughts in an even less desirable direction.
Shane thought of his father every time he heard the damned thing.
Sean August never did come around, stubbornly depriving Shane of his forgiveness until the end, as if it cost him to give it. He’d grown accustomed to the accusations, and his father had spouted them until the day he died. The man may have disowned him, but father and son were connected by more than helixes of DNA. They shared the same tragic past. And as much as Shane wished that past had died alongside his father, it hadn’t. It persisted, stymieing his breath like a lungful of accidentally swallowed bathwater.
The moment his butt hit the couch, the weight of the long day settled squarely on his shoulders. An hour ago, he’d been in the middle of the most relaxing evening since who knew when. Now his to-do list scratched at the back of his mind like a dog wanting in from the rain.
Should have known if he played hooky from his evening routine he’d pay the price. He could run, but he couldn’t hide. He gave a longing look to his glass of wine. Its siren song may hum, but his regimen wailed.
Relaxation would have to wait.
He headed for the kitchen, glass in hand, reminding himself that his regimen had gotten him this far in life. He dumped the wine unceremoniously down the drain and flipped on the faucet, watching the liquid swirl from red to pink to clear.
You should have been here, not out screwing around!
The disembodied voice of his father echoed in his mind before fading into the clock’s solemn ticking in the other room. What his old man didn’t realize was Shane hadn’t needed the constant reminders to know how greatly he’d failed.
He knew better than anyone the impact of a single choice, how a seemingly innocuous decision had irrevocably changed his mother’s life.
Or, more accurately, taken it.
Chapter 6
So? How’s it going, Ms. Rat Race?” Sadie asked, sipping her blush-colored wine.
Today marked the end of Crickitt’s first week at August Industries. Sadie had invited her to the wine bar down the road from her apartment to celebrate. The place was packed to the walls, but they managed to snag a table on the patio before it filled up.
Rather than tease Sadie for her equal participation in the Giant Maze of Life, Crickitt said, “I like it. It’s different from what I was doing before, but not in a bad way. As much as I loved working for myself, it wasn’t always as fun as it sounded.”
Sadie gave her a dubious glance. “Yeah, working a grueling four hours a day must have been rough. And then to have to eat, drink wine you didn’t pay for…” She elevated her glass and took an exaggerated drink. “I don’t know how you stood it for as long as you did,” Sadie finished with a teasing wink.
Her bestie may have crammed Crickitt’s former career into a nutshell, but essentially, it was the simplified truth. And hadn’t Crickitt described it the same way over the years? As if she was living in enviable luxury while her personal life silently crumbled down around her ears.
And, yes, part of her former workday had been spent in slouchy sweatpants. But she wasn’t lounging on the couch watching daytime television. There were meeting notes to prepare, orders to enter, customers and team members to call. Errands like trips to the bank and post office were an almost daily affair. By the time most people were commuting home from work, she’d already put in a full day. There’d been plenty of evenings when she’d rather not have packed her car full of display products and headed straight into rush hour traffic.
Just remembering the hustle of those days was exhausting. Or maybe it was the memory of Ronald alongside her career that had her grousing at the basket of complimentary crackers.
“You’re right, I’m being ungracious,” Crickitt confessed. “But it is nice to have my evenings back. What I wouldn’t have given back then to spend more—” She cut herself off, realizing what she almost said.
More evenings with my husband.
She took a hearty swig of her wine, expecting the crushing weight of loss, or loneliness, to press down on her. It didn’t come. Oddly enough, life had recently struck her as simplistic. She wasn’t defined by Before Ronald or After Ronald, he was simply a notch in her timeline, marking the separation from past to present. She used to have a husband. Now she didn’t. And she felt…fine.