Chapter 18

Wes

I don’t like westerns.

I never have.

I never will.

Fuck, I didn’t even know he did until I started looking through the collection Monica bestowed upon me, claiming to have no place for such dribble in the home she inherited.

Letting the glass linger near the edge of my lips, I continue glaring at the disgusting photo haunting me.

Taunting me .

Torturing. Me.

I hate how much I fucking look like him.

In fact…I’m actually grateful for the scars.

The burns.

The leathery patches.

It makes me look less like this pathetic excuse for a person I praised most of life and more like who he truly was.

Who I’m destined to be.

Crumpling the photo reveals to me another, although this one is worse.

Far.

Worse.

Seeing him lovingly tangled around a round stomach, dark-haired woman that’s damn near identical to the one who brought all of this to light results in me guzzling down the remainder of what’s in my cup.

Filling it to the brim again.

Chugging back gulp after gulp after gulp after gulp, no longer tasting.

Simply erasing.

Numbing.

Removing the ability to feel.

Care.

Think.

Unexpected jangling sounds part the fugue fog I’m trying to head into summoning my attention to my right where the handle to the door plummets to the ground. The loud clank causes me to loudly groan in displeasure, yet the careless swinging of it open, letting in unwelcome light, prompts a much louder grumble to reverberate around the room.

“I am glad to see you are indeed alive, sir,” Clark cheekily states upon crossing the threshold. “I will report my findings to Hamilton.”

“ Out ,” leaves me at the same time I tip the glass towards my lips for another drink. “ Now. ”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

Post another slurp, I sneer, “ It wasn’t a request .”

“And it is not an order I will be following.”

His refusal pokes at my ribs.

Does its best to spark life into my chest.

Whispers to my senses to sneak away from being paralyzed to begin processing everything liquor has so lovingly prevented.

No.

I don’t wanna process shit.

Or protest it.

Or make peace.

I wanna remain just like I am.

In a copper liquid prison of pacification.

“I’ll fire you,” I threaten between slightly smaller swallows. “For insubordination.”

“Then fire me.” He politely folds his hands in front of him as I slouch down further into my seat. “However, I cannot simply allow this to continue.”

“ What to continue, Alfred?” The snarky retort is followed by guzzling down what remains. “Why don’t you do that thing you haven’t done enough of in my life and be fucking specific?” Slamming the glass down occurs while I search for a non-empty bottle. “A straight shooter.” One stack of files gets knocked onto the floor during my reach for what’s left in the nearest container. “You know that shit the old lying, cheating, dick of the house apparently loved.” Twisting off the lid is done in tandem with locking eyes. “Another fucking secret he kept.” I carelessly toss the object at his feet. “Cause you know he didn’t have enough of those.”

He doesn’t allow my drinking straight from the bottle to deter him, “Your drinking is out of control again, Weston.”

“No,” I shake my head and wedge the bottle between my open legs, “my drinking is the only thing in control.”

“You’ve missed work.”

“Yet money was still made.”

“You’ve missed events.”

“Yet money was still spent.”

“You’ve missed wedding plans.”

“Yet I’m still getting married.”

“ Are you? ” The challenged question cuts deeper than it should, indicating a need for more alcohol. “I’m not entirely sure Miss Bryn has any interest in marrying someone who has not only blatantly ignored her for over two weeks but also missed her prenatal appointment.”

It’s difficult to present indifference but not impossible. “She has nothing to worry about. I’ll pay for knocking her up just like the bastard who raised me did.”

Clark swallows one comment to spew another. “She deserves more than that.”

“And Marzia didn’t?”

Simply hearing her name has him shifting his weight.

Tugging at his tie.

Directing his gaze anywhere but into mine.

“What’s wrong, Baker ?” I callously croak prior to sending the container towards my lips. “Can’t stomach hearing her name?”

His green glare gravitates back in my direction.

“How about looking at her face?” My free hand snatches up the nearest photo and shoves it forward. “Can you fucking handle that?! Can you sleep at night knowing you helped him hide this woman for fucking decades?! ”

There’s no response out of the man I once admired.

Respected.

Trusted more than anyone else in my household.

“Can you sleep at night knowing she wasted away practically alone from pancreatic cancer?”

Still nothing.

“Can you sleep at night knowing she died being his dirty little secret?”

Not a word.

“Was it easy for you?” Smug bitterness encourages me to jeer. “Maybe because while he was out bangin’ some backwoods bar bitch out in Texas, you were busy fucking his wife in his bed.” Demented laughter bounces my unwashed frame. “Is that it? Is that how he kept you quiet? Let you fuck his wife while he fucks around on her?” Waggling the bottle damn near causes me to drop it. “You two were some slippery fucks, huh?” All of a sudden, an idea launches me onto my wobbly feet. “Let’s go ask him!”

“ Weston- ”

“Better yet, let me go piss on his grave and give him the same fucked up treatment he gave to me and my mother.”

“ Enough. ”

“N-”

“ Enough! ” The rattling volume as much as the impact damn near shoves me back into my seat. “ That. Is. Enough! ”

“It’s not enough!”

“Why?” He viciously bites. “Because the drunken petulant toddler in front of me can’t handle not getting his way?!”

“Well…” a small drunken shrug leaves me. “Yeah.”

“ Grow. Up. Weston. ” Clark steps uncomfortably closer. “You are not the same eighteen-year-old child you were when he died!”

“I-”

“I am tired of having to pretend this behavior is acceptable!”

“I-”

“I am tired of having to allow you room to wallow in self-pity and worthlessness.”

“I-”

“I am tired of having to watch you throw your own life away simply because you just now realized the man you idealized was not perfect!”

“He was a liar!”

“He did what was necessary to protect his family! To protect you!”

“That’s what you call disowning your own child?!”

“He had his reasonings for doing what he did when it came to the Simmons even if you don’t understand them,” Clark defends without reluctance. “However, what’s yours ?” Another step forward has me fumbling into my desk. “What are your reasons for abandoning your own child?”

“My father-”

“ Your father is gone, Weston! ”

The proclamation prompts my grip around the bottle to tighten.

“ He made his choices! He made his mistakes! He lived his life! And now you must figure out how to do the same!”

Plopping into the chair is mindlessly done.

“Stop wasting all this time wallowing about what he did or didn’t do or what you did or didn’t know about him! Accept that the man you admired, the man you looked up to, was far from perfect.” An almost unbearably heavy breath leaves him. “He was arrogant. And argumentative. And obnoxiously stubborn. He drank too much. He drove too fast. He was shitty at rowing, polo and could barely swing a fucking golf club yet if you asked him or anyone around him, he was a fucking Olympic champion. Your father boasted and bragged and overcompensated like that was the actual sport he was good at.”

Confusion crinkles my forehead and stirs the senses I was trying to keep inactive.

“He missed birthdays and anniversaries and first steps and dates and graduations and a million other things because he chose to put the Wilcox legacy – and all that that entailed – above all else. And that was his choice. Just like it was mine to put you first.”

Throbbing aches begin at my temple.

Travel downward towards my ear.

“I spent more time raising you than I ever did Penny and that was my choice. That is my burden to bear. Just like having to process and deal with what she did to you because of that choice. We all have demons we have to face, Weston.” Unimaginable pain flashes briefly on his face. “Deals with the devil we didn’t see coming. Mountains of mistakes we have to figure out how to climb or conquer or demolish. To be less than perfect…to…not measure up to someone else’s standards, doesn’t make us monsters.” The side of his frame rests against the edge of my desk. “ It makes us human. ”

Absentmindedly, my grasp on the bottle slightly loosens.

“And no matter how much you drink to forget that,” the object is smoothly shifted out of my possession, “or drink to disprove that,” it lands beside him on a thud, “or drink in hopes of changing that, it doesn’t.” His hands once more fold in front of him. “ You are human, Weston. ” He allows his head to angle itself to one side. “ Just like your father was. ”

I wish the words escaping weren’t so weak, “ How could he do that to Mom? ”

“How can you do this to Bryn?”

My jaw drops to retort when the truth gets lodged in my throat.

Because I’m selfish.

Because the only shit that mattered to me was me.

Not my best friend.

Not my family.

Not the love of my life.

Not even our unborn child.

The only fuck I gave was about my pain and confusion and betrayal.

Mine and only mine.

And there’s this nauseating sensation in the pit of my stomach that tells me my father did the same.

At least I think that’s what that shit is.

It could be I’ve simply given myself alcohol poisoning again.

“ How could she forgive him? ” is whispered out prior to bile burning up the back of my throat. “ How can I? ”

“Forgiveness is a powerful tool.” In an almost effortless motion, he uses the tip of his foot to scoot the trashcan closer to me. “ How you wield it…and what or who you wield it for … all lies with you.” The bottle filled bucket knocks into my bare toes prompting me to lean forward to begin heaving. “ Just. Like. Acceptance. ”