I scrub my face, hating everything I’m about to say. “Eric made some salient points last night.”
“Salient points?” Okay, now she looks pissed.
“What I mean is you have a great job offer on the line, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m holding you back. I know what it’s like to have huge, life-altering decisions thrust upon you. To feel like you don’t have a choice. And I want you to know you do. You do have a choice. If you want that job, you should take it. You don’t… you don’t owe me anything.” I say the words I know I should, but I hate every one of them. Hate that she’d accept anything that’s linked to her ex. But a job is a job. I don’t want to stand in her way if that’s what she wants.
Her jaw tightens before she clenches her eyes shut. “The only thing holding me back is everyone telling me they know what I should do. I’ve heard it my entire life, and I’m sick of it.” She glares at me and pushes up her glasses. “I’m sick of people questioning my judgment. If I wanted to work on another campaign, don’t you think I would be by now?”
This beautiful girl looks fierce with the sun streaming down behind her, making her glow. And it will surely kill me to let her go if that’s what she wants, but I can’t let her throw away her career. After everything she went through growing up. After how much her family struggled to make ends meet. I can’t let her do this for me. For this decrepit farm. For promises I probably shouldn’t make.
Clearing my throat, I force the words out. “Don’t you think you should reconsider? That kind of career is a lot to give up.”
There’s a flash of emotion in her eyes, but then it’s gone, and in its place is a cold detachment. For one long, brutal moment, she gives me that blank stare. “You know, Brady, maybe you should take that offer on the farm.”
And then she scoots her chair back, dumps out her coffee in the sink, and heads to her room, leaving me gutted when she says she’s packing.
Goddamn it.
My head hangs forward as I listen to her belongings thump around in the other room. So this is how it ends.
And it kills me.
Because I hadn’t thought that her taking the job meant we were over exactly. I think some small part of me was hoping we might be able to work things out. Are these two mutually exclusive, her job offer and our relationship?
I think about my parents and the responsibilities I have back East. About needing to raise Izzy. About the million bills sitting on the counter over there. About my nearly empty bank account.
Do I want to drag her down with me? Because that’s what this feels like right now. Like drowning. Because even with the farm’s side business and bath products, we won’t stay afloat, not with the bills I have coming in from Boston.
What do she and I have if I sell the farm?
As I mull over my choices, I know fighting for her when she has so much of her future on the line is selfish. And I won’t be the prick who drags her down when I have nothing left to offer her.
55
Katherine
What have I done?
I close the door to my room and lean my head against the frame, wishing I could take back the last ten minutes of my life.
But would I say anything else? Would this moment be any different if I told him I loved him? If I told him this was killing me?
I didn’t mean to tell him to sell the farm. The words rushed out of me before I could stop them. I was pissed and emotional and hurt, but when Brady didn’t blink an eye at my words, I felt heartbroken.
Of course he wants to sell. Of course he wants to get back to his life in Boston. Who stays in a small Texas town because of a girl?
He must not have heard Eric last night. I know Brady well enough to know he’d never take that asshole’s money.
As much as I want to tell Brady that Eric’s behind the offer, I know that selling would help Brady and his family. Where the money comes from doesn’t matter.
And Eric is crazy if he thinks I’m coming back here once this place is his.
Reaching for my duffle bag in the closet, I toss it on the floor before I reach for my clothes. I don’t have much. Jeans and t-shirts. A few flannels. My boots. One pair of pumps.
One item remains on a hanger. That black dress. The only nice outfit I own.
My fingers run along the silky soft fabric.
I won’t bring it, I decide. It reminds me of the funerals and that night with Brady.
Maybe I should have known all along that any relationship that starts steeped in death is doomed to fail.
I wipe my eyes, and before I can think too much more about what I’m doing, I grab my laptop and tuck it into my bag. Then I reach for my notebook and scribble out the note before I totally lose it.
As I head for the door, I toss the bag over my shoulder and grab my binder, the one with all of the recipes and scent combinations.
My heart is in my throat when I step into the kitchen. Brady’s feeding Izzy, and her beautiful little face grins at me, sending the knife a little deeper.