Page 120 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“I knew what I was doing. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But it wasn’t to hurt you. Not once.”

My eyes sting before I can stop them. It’s getting too much. I want to shut down, block it out, go back to bed—anything but sit here and take more of it.

But Wade doesn’t stop.

“I fell for a girl who was never supposed to be mine,” he says. “For more reasons than one. And I was too selfish to deny it when maybe I should’ve been stronger than that.” His voice is rough at the edges now. “For that, I am sorry. Genuinely. Whatever that’s worth to you right now.”

I look at the desk, at his Stetson sitting between us, thinking about Maeve pushing me toward him. Acting like a friend. All while being on his side the whole time.

I think about Gino Martinez’s blood running through me. About Gramps pressing his hand to my shoulder, calling me his boy, and knowing I wasn’t his by blood.

There is so much I want to say. I want to ask Wade why he didn't tell me the truth sooner. I want to ask him if any part of him ever resented it—the choice he made, the life it cost him. I want to tell him that I'm angry, that I'm grateful, that I don'tknow how to hold both of those things at the same time and it's tearing me apart. But there’s nothing left in me anymore. So I stay quiet.

Wade stays quiet too. For a long moment he just sits there, both of us in the hum of the office, the weight of everything said and unsaid pressing down on the room. Then, he picks up his hat from the desk and gets to his feet. Slowly, like it costs him.

He crosses to the door. Stops with his hand on the frame.

“I know I've got no right to ask anything of you right now,” he says to the door. “But I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you need, space, answers, someone to shout at, I'm here.”

I press my fingertips hard into my thigh. Using the pressure to keep me in the room. To keep me from saying something I can't take back, or breaking down completely, or both.

“You're my son,” he says quietly. “And you will always be.”

His voice drops to almost nothing on the last part.

“I love you, Colt.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Forty Five

Maeve

You'd think packing up after a trip away would be normal for me. I've done it enough times. A suitcase, a bag, a taxi to the airport, and onto the next thing.

But this doesn't feel like packing up after a trip away.

This feels like I am packing up to leave home.

I came here with almost nothing—one suitcase, one bag, and the emptiness of someone who has spent most of their life living out of a suitcase because nowhere felt right to settle. Now I somehow have double the amount I arrived with, and it'snot the extra suitcase that's making it hard to breathe. It's the boots sitting on top of the pile. The ones he picked out. I set them carefully on top of the clothes and zip the case shut before I can think about it any longer.

Iris sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, watching me with that expression she reserves for when she knows something I'm not saying yet.

“You’re sure about today?” she says eventually.

I lift the second suitcase onto the bed and start packing away my toiletries. “Yes.”

“Meave.”

“Iris.”

I look over, and she gives me that look. The one that says I know you’re lying.

“Look, I don’t want to go back to London. When do I ever? But I can’t stay, girl.”

She watches me another moment as I gather the remaining items, before getting up and shutting the suitcase lid.

“Go and talk to them,” she says. “Both of them. Before we leave. Otherwise, you’re going to be on that plane regretting it, and I am not dealing with ten hours of sad Maeve. Flying is terrifying enough.”