But did I have another option?
Delilah would happily offer herself up as a “sacrifice.” But the thought of giving Delilah what she’d always wanted, of potentially ending up repeating that horrific night from our teen years, was enough to make me want to hurl up thebreakfast I hadn’t eaten.
But Maisey… Waking up with her in my house? That wasn’t at all vomit-inducing.
But it would end badly, just like every relationship did. And who would I turn to when it did? Who would Maisey turn to? She had Fallon. She had other friends. But me? I had a crew I’d separated myself from to be a leader, a father who was talking about retiring, and Maisey.
No. I couldn’t ask Maisey to do something stupid like this with me.
No way, no how.
Which just meant, if I stayed, I’d have to suck it up and report to some external hotshot they hired.
Unless I could somehow convince them I didn’t need a wife on my arm to run this station—and run it better than Nattingly had been doing in the last few years.
But damned if I could think of how to accomplish it.
Chapter Five
Maisey
MONSTERS
Performed by Ella Langley
THREE YEARS AGO
HIM: You’re home!
HER: Yep!
HIM: I got promoted, and you finally got a job in town. This calls for a celebration.
HER: You got your captain bugles?! Why didn’t you tell me?
HIM: I’m telling you now. Meet me at Frank’s. Stat.
HER: I’ll be there in an hour. I need to clean up, and I’m at the good part of my book where the hero is making a grand gesture to win the heroine back after his stupid mistake.
HIM: I’ll happily give you a grand gesture. You just gotta come get it.
HER: *** puke emoji *** How is it possible for you to turn every single sentence into a sexual innuendo?
HIM: Practice. Years of practice.
HIM: But seriously, put the book down now, or I’ll show up on your doorstep and drag you out of the house.
HER: You’d have to find me first. I got my own place.
HIM: Maisey, this is Swift Rivers. It’ll take me two minutes to find you. Get your ass down here.
PRESENT DAY
I wasn’t sure exactly what hadwoken me because when my eyes dragged open, the house was still silent. No sounds drifted through the wall my room shared with the kitchen, which meant Dad wasn’t awake andfumbling with the coffeepot.
Even with Mom having been gone for eleven years now, he still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of making his own coffee. She used to make it for him, just like she’d filled his thermos and cooler, so he’d have as much homemade food as possible before he started eating at fast food chains and diners on his long-haul jobs.
The sun was drifting weakly through the old fabric blinds Mom had made, casting my childhood room in early morning shadows. The dresser and shelves were full of old knick-knacks and trophies from my riding days, and the closet held a barrage of out-of-fashion clothes. I needed to clean it all out. Dad had refused to get rid of most of Mom’s things, but I could stop hanging on to objects from a childhood that had been mixed with joy and pain.