Except it feels unfinished. Or maybe I’m just imagining this break feels more like an intermission than an ending.
Beau, Gregory, and I chat for another hour—Gregory’s requests, our budgets, the expansion, upcoming events at the resort, the new computer system and the IT team that came with it—before I head to my own office a few doors down. I’m draping my jacket over the back of my chair when Samuel walks in.
He looks happy and well-rested in an emerald green suit and fur-lined loafers—even after all these years, I still don’t get why he tries to be football’s answer to Macklemore—and for a split second, I hate him.
Why does he get the happy ending?
He holds out his hand, his smile fading. “You all right?”
“Sorry.” I take his hand and give it a firm shake. “Guess I’m just missing Stevie. How’re you? Looks like you’re still on cloud nine.”
Samuel keeps his hand clasped around mine. “When are you gonna ask her to move in? Because you should ask her to move in.”
“Thanks for the advice I didn’t ask for and don’t need,” I say wryly. “Kind of you.”
“You look like you just lost a championship game on a bad call. Clearly, you do need some advice. Put a ring on it. Boo her up. Whatever the fuck the kids are calling it these days, you should make Stevie yours. You know it, I know it. She knows it. Why you even let her leave—”
“I told you, she has a life and a business to run. I can’t keep her from that.”
He finally drops my hand. “Y’all haven’t talked about it? Your endgame?”
I want to crawl under my desk and hide there forever.
Instead, I run a hand over my face and look away. “Look, we’re working on it, all right? I’ve got a lot to do today.”
“I know.” Samuel peers at me. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay. You wouldn’t lie to me about being okay after everything that happened last year, right?”
Scratch hiding under the desk. I want to get sucked down straight to hell, where I probably belong.
“I’m sad. And tired. And excited to be back. That’s the truth. Now can we move on?”
Samuel looks at me for another minute before he unbuttons his blazer and takes a seat in a chair in front of my desk, crossing his ankle over his knee. “I’m trusting you,” he says. “One last thing about Stevie—Emma and I were seriously impressed by her beer. We plan on stocking Lady Luck well into the future.”
I sit, shooting my cuffs. I gotta cut off mentions of Stevie at some point, or I’m gonna die.
“So, Friday night bonfires. I want to bring them back. Let’s talk about the food and beverage component.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stevie
I wait to feel better.
The week is a busy one, filled with exciting but labor-intensive things. I’m able to lose myself in work for a few hours at a time, running meetings, recipe development. I love my job—that hasn’t changed.
I play tennis.
I try to read.
I drink beer, and I make good food, and I listen to Brené Brown podcasts.
I do everything I can that usually makes me feel better. But every day, I wake up and feel worse.
By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m in tears before I even open my eyes. Here I am, nearly a week in, and I miss Hank so much I can’t get out of bed.
Reaching for my phone, I do what I’ve done every morning since I left Blue Mountain. I check to see if Hank’s called or texted or emailed.
Nada.
So I pull up his name and start typing out a text of my own.
I know I said I wanted a clean break, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m so sorry. I miss you like crazy. I would give my left arm to be having coffee with you right now. Wait, I take that back. I guess I need two arms to play the tambourine. But I’d gladly offer a leg? Have you told your family yet about us? Do they think we broke up? I want to see you so badly, baby.
I can’t shake the feeling I’ve messed up so, so badly.
I hover my thumb over the arrow button. I chicken out at the last minute, but this is definitely the closest I’ve come to actually pressing send.
Putting a hand over my eyes, I let myself cry.
I don’t know what to do here. On the one hand, I know I’ve already hurt Hank, and I’d be hurting him again by reaching out. Nothing’s changed; I still want freedom, and he still wants family. I still own and run Lady Luck, and he’s still young, young enough to start fresh. What would sending a text like that accomplish? It’d only upset us both.
On the other hand, I’m trying to be truthful, and the truth is I’m hurting without him. Chances are he’s hurting without me too. That look he gave me when he dropped me off at the airport—