“Even if you never talk to him again, you’re going to find peace with your rocky past and disappointing reunion with the guy who happens to be your biological sperm donor.” My voice softens, and I tilt my head to weave every heartbroken emotion into my words. “He’s never really been your dad, Tripp. Your family is within the plot lines of this ranch. And here I am, next to you, and right in the middle of it, too.”
He breathes heavier through his nose. I lean back to stand up straight and brush the still-damp hair out of my face.
When I see the stubbornness still etched in his expression, something hits me. I do my best to push it away, but the thought is too strong to ignore.
If I stay here all night, begging him to understand me, I’ll once again be the one trying to preserve a relationship with a man who isn’t taking anything I say seriously. My words aren’t random or pulled out of thin air. They’re true, and I want him to trust them instead of brushing them off like they’re lies.
He knows I’m glad he’s okay. He knows I care about him. No matter how much my heart aches over what he’s going through, it’s clear there’s nothing else I can do to change his mind about the dark notions in his head tonight.
It’s not solely my responsibility to make him see the light. I’m not a punching bag, either. After rejecting everything I’ve already said, he’ll have to care enough to get the rest of the way there on his own.
“I’m going home to get some sleep and refocus before a string of very important workdays and celebrating our friends’ wedding next week. I’m too exhausted to be feeding into anymore of your experimental games of push and pull, Tripp. I cannot go through this again.”
I almost take it all back. My throat bobs, and a swift apology nearly slips out of my mouth. But I’ve done this before—shrinking myself down and softening my feelings when things get uncomfortable—keeping the peace to avoid further damage. Not this time.
“We’re both confused and hurt,” I continue with steady confidence. “What I need is to take some space and figure out what that means for me. I suggest you do the same.”
30
MESA
“No,it’s totally fine! Come in, come in!”
Savannah steps through my door with wide eyes, clutching her bag with both hands in front of her.
“Sorry, it’s super messy in here,” I say with a laugh while bending over the table to swipe a ridiculously large pile of papers to the side. I puff air through the corner of my mouth to get the escaped hair out of my face and place both hands on my hips. “What’s up?”
“I once drank liquor out of Warren’s belly button at a bunkhouse party, and it tasted like sweat-flavored vodka, okay? A dirty house is nothing.”
My laugh in response to that must have been a little too high-pitched.
“Uh—are you manic or something?” she asks.
“What? No. I’ve been super busy.”
She looks down at my baggy sweatpants and shirt that I may or may not have also worn yesterday. Her eyes trail up and land on the pencil in my hair.
“Okay.” She draws out the word. “And you know the wedding is in three days? And I’ve been calling you for four?”
“Duh,” I blurt out, holding a hand up and shaking my head. I did, in fact, forget that the wedding is that close. Is it Wednesday already? I flick a piece of pizza crust off my shoulder.
“Oh boy.” She lowers her sunglasses and clears a spot on the kitchen counter for her purse. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“How bad?” Blythe asks as she walks in carrying a heap of grocery bags.
“You look so pretty! What is going on right now? I had no idea y’all were coming.” I laugh and take the loot from her to put in the kitchen, then gasp and spin around to face them again. “Oh, crap. Did we have something planned and I forgot about it?”
“No, just came to check on you,” Blythe answers.
I smile and lean against the fridge door. “That’s so nice. I’m sure you’re busy with so many better things to do for the wedding, though. I’m doing great!”
Savannah’s raised eyebrows and cheeky smile are entirely sarcastic. “Sure, babe! Totally believe you. Let me see your nails.”
I roll my eyes and place my hand on her outstretched palm.
“Manicure,” she whispers over her shoulder.
Blythe pulls out her phone and starts typing as quickly as she can. “How’s the app been going?” she asks without lifting her face from the screen, but I think it’s just to distract me.
