Take This Regret (Take This Regret #1)(52)
Author: A.L. Jackson

The afternoon stretched on, peaceful and without strain. For once, my nerves were quiet as I rested at the table with those closest to me. We’d eaten, joked, and shared the trivial events of our week. Matthew and Natalie never mentioned the night before, the incident forgotten. Lizzie played on the grass, soaking in the last few rays of light as the sun hung low in the horizon, each day shorter than the last as October threatened to give way to November.

It was odd to witness the trust that had emerged between Christian and Matthew, their conversation casual and unlabored, genuine. Years before, when Christian and I had been together, the disdain Matthew had held for Christian had been clear. It had been as if he could foretel the future and he’d known of Christian’s betrayal before it had ever been committed.

I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw now, what had changed as the two men talked as friends that I now believed they considered themselves to be. Our conversation continued on, uncomfortable silences unheard of on this perfect Sunday afternoon.

Christian was laughing loud and unhindered when his phone rang out from within the confines of his jacket pocket. still chuckling, he patted his coat, feeling for the phone, pulled it out and said, “Excuse me a second.” We all quieted, lowering our voices so he could take his call .

I tried to focus on what Natalie was saying but couldn’t ignore the way Christian stiffened and his tone hardened when he answered, “Yes, this is Christian Davison.” Natalie stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes darted between Christian and me, her brow creasing with worry as the silence on Christian’s end wore on. I watched as Christian slumped forward and dug his elbows into his thighs. His knuckles were white from the force with which he held his phone, and his other hand jerked incessantly through his hair.

“What?” he final y choked out in anguish. There was another long break, this time his hand fisting in his hair.

When he spoke again, he sounded detached, stunned, his voice so quiet I was sure whoever was on the other line didn’t hear him. “Okay, thank-you.”

I wanted to drop to my knees to draw his face to mine, to comfort him for whatever was causing him this reaction.

But I was frozen, the blood sloshing in my ears, making me sick with unease as I waited.

Christian sat up, his face portraying nothing, void of emotion, pale and unfeeling. Shocked.

“Christian?” I began but stopped when he glanced in the direction of my voice and then back ahead, unseeing, muttering in disbelief.

“My father is dead.” He squeezed his eyes shut, blinked them open, and said again, “My father is dead.” Oh no.

My hand covered my mouth as I tried to suppress the cry that bubbled up, a seemingly inappropriate sound for a man I had only despised but couldn’t help but mourn if solely for the fact that he had fathered Christian.

“I have to go,” Christian said in words that were barely audible, directed at no one at all . He stood and moved as if on instinct but without comprehension. The three of us watched in shock as he disappeared inside my house before my senses final y caught up and I shook off my stupor.

Christian needed me.

I jumped up, knocking my chair over in the process, and raced inside to catch him only to trip over my feet when I got to the living room. Christian was on the couch hunched over, his hands clutching his head, bal ed up in a position so similar to the one he had been in just seconds before.

Faster than I could give myself time to think, I was on my knees in front of him and whispering soothing words. I pried his hands from his hair, held his beautiful face, and ran my thumbs under his eyes.

It was as if he didn’t even know I was there.

I’d never seen him act this way, and I heard myself pleading. “Christian, please say something.” He shook his head and stood as he once again said, “I have to go.”

Natalie and Matthew stood in the archway, watching with horrified expressions. I looked helplessly to them and mouthed, “What should I do?”

Christian was halfway out the front door when the soft sound of Lizzie’s voice hit our ears, scared and shaking.

“Daddy?”

With it Christian halted mid-stride, her voice enough to break through whatever barrier had his heart and mind trapped.

The release of tension was visible as his rigid shoulders went lax, his eyes clear as he turned and drew Lizzie into his arms when she ran across the room to him.

Chapter 13

I turned the key in the lock, wary, my mind still muddied, trying to make sense of the news I’d received.

Gone.

Just like that, without warning. I guess I’d always viewed my father as unshakable, an indestructible force—immortal until the day he was not.

The door swung closed behind me, and I stood in the dimness of my condo, lost, the sun burning a thin line as it sank and disappeared at the edge of the ocean, the end of my perception. I stood in the same spot, watching it fal until it faded, and darkness swall owed the room.

It scared me that I didn’t feel anything. At the same time, I felt weak as if I might col apse and not know why.

Excruciating numbness.

With arduous steps, I walked to the end of the hal and into my bedroom. I flipped on the light in my closest, hesitating at the door before I built up enough courage to tug at the smal brown chest shoved in the back corner of the top shelf. It was light, its weight the box itself. The contents shifted as I crossed the room and set it beside me on the bed. The metal latch rattled as I unclasped it and opened the lid to the photos I kept inside.

For a moment, I sat motionless, wondering why I was doing this and what I hoped to find, before I reached in and pulled them out.

The stack was smal and contained the few printed memories of my childhood—each formal and posed. It was probably senseless to look for something other than pride from my father, but I felt compel ed to search for a glimmer of something more—a sign of warmth, a glimpse of a love he’d never proclaimed. But in each one, he was there only because I’d done something notable, something that he’d deemed worth his time.

I shook my head with a harsh snort.

He’d lived in arrogance, had died in arrogance.

A stroke had taken him, something that would have been treatable had he not ignored the symptoms, but he’d been too prideful to believe anything could ever take him down. I’d learned through my father’s attorney that he’d started slurring his words at the office during the day, but he’d disregarded everyone’s concerns, told them he just had a headache, and had his driver take him home. Even my father’s wife, Kendra, as self-absorbed as I believed her to be, had urged him to seek care. Instead, he’d said he had work to do and had locked himself in his office upstairs. She’d awoken the next morning to an empty bed.