Better get used to it.
…
Mackenzie
My life is a total disaster.
I sit on the edge of my bed and survey the crap spread across the room. I’m supposed to be packing for Uni, but that’s turning into a disaster, as well. I don’t even know where to start.
The low-level dread pulsing in my chest like a malignant fog is something I’ve become used to before returning to Uni, but it’s so much worse this time.
I let out a shaky breath, and my listless glance rests on the photo of Mum I keep next to my bed. I pick it up and study her face, so like mine, but different.
I miss you so much. If she were still here, would I be able to tell her about Will? I used to tell her everything before I hit fifteen and turned into the biggest bitch ever.
It’s only midmorning, and Dad said he’d be back at lunchtime, before I leave for Oxford. Might as well stick to my original plan, since there’s no way I’ll be going in the morning with Will.
Don’t think about him. He was in my head all night—the reason I couldn’t get to sleep, and the tormentor of my fractured dreams when I did manage to drop off.
My fingers tighten around the photo frame, and before I can stop myself, I’m making my way downstairs to Mum’s old study.
With a deep breath, I push open the door, and my heart aches in that bittersweet, familiar way. Nothing much has changed in all the years she’s been gone except that Dad gave a few pieces of her antique Queen Anne furniture to Harry and Lucas when they turned twenty-one.
For my birthday last year, he gave me the choice of whatever I wanted from this room. But I couldn’t take anything. And not just because I don’t have my own home like my brothers do.
It’s because, deep in my heart, it feels like sacrilege. This was her room. It’s still her room. I can’t even count how many times I’ve slipped in here over the years, when nobody knew, just so I’d feel closer to her.
I place the photo on her desk, and a pang grips my heart at how bare it looks without all her papers and journals. And then I curl up on my favorite chair, the one I always used to sit in while Mum worked late into the night.
When I was little, I’d spend hours in here with coloring books, drawing, or reading. Later, she’d discuss what she was working on, and I found it fascinating. I always enjoyed knotty problems and working things out. Sounds crazy, but it was almost like a hobby for me, a way to stretch my mind in another direction than my first love.
Art.
No wonder everyone assumed I wanted to follow in her footsteps. It was just one of those strange, unspoken things that happened, and I went along with it because why wouldn’t I?
When I was nine, I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
You can’t keep blaming your mum because you’re too afraid to go after your dreams.
Will’s accusation’s been haunting me all night. I want to hate him for saying it. For twisting my deepest confessions and tossing them out like soiled rags.
Except I can’t.
Even Brooklyn, who knows practically everything about me, has never accused me of being afraid.
Am I, though?
It’s hard to face, but in some fucked-up psychological way, is he right? Am I clinging to the old and familiar because it’s safe, because it’s what everyone expects? Because if I deviate from that path, I’ll be going into the terrifying unknown?
But you’re not happy, are you? She wouldn’t want that, Mac. You know it.
“Get out of my head.” I grind the words between my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. But he’s still there, gorgeous, sexy, condemning.
He has no right to judge me. I feed the spark of resentment that flares into a brief, acidic glow, but it’s no use. It fades and dies, leaving me chilled both inside and out.
Despite my delusional insistence that our fling was only a casual fuck-buddy arrangement, I always knew it was going to be hell when it ended. Sometimes I hate being right.
There was never any chance we’d stay friends afterward. But now, I’m not sure I’ll even be able to keep up the masquerade I’ve perfected over the last two years.
I wrap my arms around my legs, and my head drops to my knees. Not going to cry. But my eyes water, anyway, scalding my cheeks. Sod it…
“Mackenzie, sweetheart.” Dad’s alarmed voice penetrates my stuffed-up head, and I turn away, so he can’t see my red eyes. I hate being caught snuffling. He wasn’t due back for another couple of hours. Please don’t let Margo be with him.
He drags Mum’s chair from behind her desk and sits right in front of me and takes my hand. My nose twitches, and it’s no use. I give a big, pathetic sniff.
“Talk to me,” he says softly, and I have the terrible urge to do just that. Tell him everything. But I can’t.
Why not?
I hitch in a ragged breath, but it doesn’t make that question disappear. I can’t tell him the truth because…
Because I’ve never really told him anything since Mum died.
The truth slams through me, an icy, prickly realization of how little I confide in him. I’ve always told my friends how close my family is. How we pull together. All that shit. But if I can’t tell my own dad what a fucked-up mess I’ve made of things, what does that say about my so-called tight-knit family?
He’ll be devastated.
More devastated than if he finds out the truth years from now?
He won’t find out. If I never tell him, how could he?
You’re just going to carry on living a lie?
“I’m…” The words lock in my throat. I drop my gaze to my knees where he’s holding my hand, so I don’t witness the regret in his eyes. “I’m not sure medicine is for me.”
I literally hold my breath as my stomach churns, waiting for his response. His fingers tighten around mine, and I brace myself for his disappointment.
“I’ve wondered that for a while. I didn’t know how to ask you about it.”
Disbelief spirals through me. He guessed? How could he have guessed? He’s brilliant, but he’s not what I’d call attuned to emotions.
Maybe you’re the one who’s not plugged in, huh?
“You—” I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask. “You’re not shocked?”
His smile is sad and hurts my heart so much my eyes sting. “The last year or so, it was as though your light dimmed whenever the holidays ended. I didn’t know for sure what the problem was. Your mum was the one who could talk about things like that. I don’t know where to start with it.”
“I’m sorry.” The words come from a place so deep inside, it’s like I’ve sacrificed the bloodied remnants of my hypothetical soul.
“No, sweetheart.” His voice is firm. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I only wish I’d said something to you before.” He heaves a sigh. “Talking about things that really matter isn’t my forte, I’m sorry to say.”
“But I’d feel so bad about, you know, dropping out.” Even saying those words make me nauseated. I’ve never dropped out of anything. It’s alien. Scary.
“Nonsense.” He peers at me over the top of his glasses. “If this is what you have to do, then you must do it, Mackenzie. You can’t waste another term doing something that doesn’t excite your spirit.”
I’m strangely lightheaded, as if my blood pressure has suddenly dropped, and I sag against the side of the chair. This is how relief feels. The hard knot in my chest eases, and I exhale a long breath. “I thought you’d be so upset.”
A slow frown creases his forehead. “Why would I be upset?”
I’m not sure what he means. “Because I was always expected to go into medicine. Like Mum.”
“God,” he mutters, and shock reels through me. Dad never swears, and although God isn’t what I’d call a curse, coming from him, it’s as profane as the f-word. “I tried so hard not to screw it up after your mum passed. I didn’t do a good job there, did I.”
Is he asking me a question? I�
��ve no idea what he’s talking about. “Dad?”
He lets out a defeated sigh. “I blame myself. But I’m so proud of all three of you. Your choice of careers has never concerned me as much as your happiness does. I just”—he hesitates for a second—“I don’t know how to show it, that’s all.”
He’s talking about my brothers, as well as me. I mean, sure, I know Mum and Dad expected Harry to go on to University and were kind of bemused when he didn’t. And they never quite got Lucas’s obsession with his football.
But that’s different, isn’t it?
Is it, really?
I give his hand a little shake. “Hey, it’s not all you. I could’ve said something. But I just got caught up in it all and thought…” Am I really going to tell him this? In for a penny… “I thought I had to be the one to go to Uni.”
I regret my confession as soon as Dad winces. I shouldn’t have told him that. He looks so hurt.
It had to be said. No more hiding behind silent, death-bed promises and trying to be something I’m not.
Don’t be afraid to go after your dreams.
“This is something I should’ve asked you a long time ago.” He gazes at me, and a funny little shiver races over my arms as though I know what he’s going to say. “What do you want to do with your life, Mackenzie?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Will
It’s been a long bloody week. And it’s only Monday afternoon.
I lean back in the chair, but the knots in my shoulders are from more than being hunched over a desk all day.
Mac will be settled back in Oxford by now.
Unbidden, my glance falls to my phone. I haven’t deleted her number. Don’t know why. It’s not as though I’ll ever use it again.
Jesus, this fucking sucks. It was shitty two years ago, when she told me on New Year’s Eve our hookup had been the biggest mistake of her life. After I’d searched for her at that party to find out if she was okay. She hadn’t returned any of my calls or texts that week.
But yeah. She was fine. Blew me off, flirted with every guy at the party, and our friendship was trashed.
I got over it. Mostly. Not sure I will this time.
It’s crazy. I want to talk to her. Tell her about the call from Adam earlier today. He told me they’ve managed to hold off the sponsors for another week, to give me more time. But what’s a week? Not enough for me to change shit around, that’s for sure.
No. But I can set things in motion. Let Mum know the countdown is on. We haven’t spoken about my leaving the company for over a year. No point, when I know the score.
But with a date set in stone, it’s something to focus on.
It’s almost ten before I get home that night and the flat feels weirdly empty.
For fuck’s sake. Mac was with me for less than a month. How can a girl so completely take over my life in a matter of weeks?
She’s not just a girl. She never was. The last few weeks were the best of my life.
Not just because the sex was fantastic. I got one of my best friends back.
A pair of her flip-flops lays discarded in the hall, and one of her sweaters is tossed over the sofa. Good job Lucas didn’t recognize them.
Guess I should box up all the stuff she left here and return it. How was this place less claustrophobic when she was here when I got home from work?
An hour later I’m sitting on my bed, pillows stacked behind me, as I call Mum. We spoke last week, and she’s having a great time on the cruise, secure in the knowledge I’m overseeing the company. A thread of unease stirs deep in my gut.
You’re not the only one who could do that.
She picks up, and we discuss the usual things, including a brief update on work. My gaze roams around my room, and halts on the portrait Mac did of me. She calls it a sketch, but it’s so much more than that, and it’s now framed and hangs on the wall.
She nearly died when she saw it. But I think it grew on her.
I stifle a sigh and drag my mind back to the conversation. “We’ve not talked about this for a while, but I’m giving a formal date of my resignation.” I give her the date. Twenty-two months, three weeks and four days from today. It’s been over three years since I took over Dad’s position, but I’ve never given her a firm date before. Amazing how good it feels.
“Darling, I’ve been meaning to discuss this with you. The complications with the Gowan account are an ongoing concern, as you know.”
Yes, I know. And I don’t know why she’s bringing it up now. “I’d like to focus this discussion on my formal resignation.”
I can tough it out with anyone in the boardroom, but it takes a special kind of brass balls when dealing with your own mother.
“With all the upheaval lately, it’s imperative we maintain a stable position in the marketplace.” By “upheaval,” she’s referring to Dad’s death and her own stroke. My glance snags on Mac’s artwork, but it’s not my profile I see. It’s hers. I’ll always see her when I look at it.
“Will?” Mum’s voice is ear-gratingly polite.
“I understand that.”
“Good. Because we do need to firm up some long-term strategies. I’ve had some thoughts on this I’d like to run by you, but we’re looking at a five-year commitment here.”
Another five years? It’s a punch in the gut, and I can’t even speak, while she outlines her ideas. That’ll make it eight years I’ve invested in the company. I’ll be over thirty fucking years old by then.
Mac’s voice fills my mind. You had to put your dreams on hold.
She said that to me in Wales. And I threw virtually the same comment back in her face on Saturday. Except she was being supportive, and at the party I was a total fucking dick.
The stricken expression on her face grinds through my head. Like I’d betrayed her in the worse possible way.
Go away, Will.
That’s why she stalked off. Because I accused her of being afraid. Of using her mum as an excuse.
Because I’d used her confession against her.
Will Hamilton, you’re a despicable arsehole.
I’ve always prided myself on being a straight talker. What you see is what you get and all that crap. Yet when it comes to the girl who means more to me than anyone else, I’ve been the biggest fucking hypocrite.
At least my mother is still alive. I don’t have to battle a ghost. How could I have been such an arrogant bastard?
When Dad died, there was never any question that I’d step in the breach. Just for a couple of years. Mum knew it was temporary. Knew what my dreams were, even if she never took them seriously. And then, after her stroke, I stayed. No way I’d abandon her.
Only until things were sorted out. But somehow that deadline extended way past my original expectations.
Neither of my parents understood the driving need inside me to succeed on my own merits. I never wanted to inherit a ready-made company or navigate daily cutthroat politics where my name and age were two strikes against me.
I’m no longer a kid, forever playing catch up for all the things my parents tried to protect me from. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.
“I’m sorry, Mum.” Just tell her. “I love you, you know that, don’t you?” It’s not something I’ve said to her that often. Not since I was a kid.
Doesn’t make it less true, though.
“Of course, I do. I love you, too.” There’s a small hitch in her voice, and I feel bad about letting her down.
You’re not letting her down.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to your dad and me.”
I clear my throat. This is even harder than I imagined. “I don’t want to sound like a spoiled prat, but the company’s always been your dream, not mine.”
“It’s our legacy to you, darling. And don’t forget, I’m resuming my position on the Board early next year. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
I rake my fingers over my head. It’d be so much easier to ag
ree. Sign up for another five years.
And then another five.
“You don’t need me to work at the company. You’ll do a much better job than I ever could. Plus, it’s time I concentrated on my own business. I’d like to share my plans with you so you can understand what I’m doing.”
“We’ve discussed this before, Will.”
And then it hits me.
“No, we haven’t.” They didn’t take me seriously when I first told them, way back when Oakland was still a dream. And although they knew I was following it through, and Mum’s always been aware I’m a partner, she doesn’t know any of the details.
For the first time, I acknowledge how much I’ve learned about business strategy over the last three years, working at the company. Knowledge I can use for Oakland’s advantage. I should tell her that, and explain exactly what I hope to achieve.
She doesn’t interrupt once as I outline our plans for expansion, and when I’m done, I exhale a long breath. Everything’s on the table. I hope she understands, but if not, this is still something I need to do.
There’s a long silence, which is a good sign. If she was going to disregard everything I said, she wouldn’t be taking her time thinking about it first.
“When I get back home,” she says at last, “I’d like to visit Oakland.”
Yes. “Anytime.” There’s something else, too. “Truth is, I’d value your opinion. As a consultant.”
We talk for a bit longer before ending the call. Strange, I’d never considered asking her to share her expertise before, but it makes so much sense. Not just because of her business acumen, but also her phenomenal skills when it comes to networking.
Freedom. I’ve waited so long for this moment. I should be on the phone to the guys, letting them know there’s no need to find anyone else to head up the expansion. But instead of excitement that my dreams are finally within my grasp, it’s like there’s a black hole inside my chest, sucking me dry.
None of it means much if I can’t share it with Mac. Why did it take me so long to see how much I want her in my life?
Because you’re a blinkered prat.
I can’t stop replaying our last conversation.
Not So Happily Ever After Page 17
