Page 108 of Thirst For Me
Sierra.
Afterwards, as we lie entangled in the back of my truck, half-clothed, I don’t feel any better.
How could I?
I’ve lost on every front.
I’m feeling all kinds of things for the woman in my arms that I’m not ready for. Have never been ready for, not from the moment she walked into my bar.
My parents died, suddenly and tragically, less than a year before that moment, and I’m only starting to realize now how deep I still was—still am—in the ugly process of grieving for them. Finishingthe renovations on our family home; getting my arms lavishly tattooed with apple blossoms and their names; burying myself in work—none of it has really helped me deal.
While I’ve plowed onward with my life, taking on more responsibilities and making my family and our business my top priorities, I’ve tried to keep everything under control, including my grief.
But just below the surface, I’m devastated.
The hole they left in my life is still so raw. I’m wounded, and some days, I’m a fucking mess of nameless emotions that seem to be pulling the strings even as I try to ignore them.
And maybe I haven’t been able to see things clearly.
When June invited a stranger to lease Pier Seven, denying me that right, deep down, it felt like a much worse betrayal than it was. I had no real claim on the building, but it felt like my parents did, and June’s refusal to negotiate with me felt like a betrayal ofthem. That’s what really pissed me off.
And Sierra ... I was so wrong about her, it hurts.
I’m just starting to recognize—to admit to myself—how deeply fucking wrong I was about her, her intentions, her reasons for coming here. Her reasons for every little thing she’s said and done in Orchard Cove.
Including the things she’s said to me.
The things she’s done with me, and every moment we’ve shared.
Even the most beautiful moments have been tainted by my lingering distrust. My unwillingness to admit that maybe I’ve been wrong the whole time.
I haven’t even manned up enough to tell her so. To apologize. To try to make it right—all the things I said and did to her that were just so damnwrong.
And now she’sleaving.
“I feel like I’ve fucked up,” I say to the night sky, breaking the silence. The fireworks have ended, and we’re lying on our backs, faces tipped up to the stars.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mason. Losing Pier Seven is not your fault. It was June’s decision to make.” Then she adds dryly, “And we’ve both met June. You are not going to change that woman’s mind if she’s decided.”
Maybe she’s right.
But that’s not the only thing I fucked up. Badly.
“I should’ve prioritized it more,” I say.
I should’ve prioritizedyoumore.
“You did what you could. There’s a lot on your plate.”
I sigh, so fucking exhausted. “It feels like everywhere I am, I should be somewhere else. There’s always something more I should be doing. Someone who needs me, who I could be failing. Even if I don’t want to.”
There’s a long, fraught silence as maybe she considers that.
And how fucking exhausted I sound.
I hear it myself: the weariness in my own voice. The weight of the responsibilities I’ve been carrying.
I want to seize this moment, to tell her how sorry I am for all the mistakes I’ve made, but the truth is I’m scared.
