Published by Self Published on January 11th 2016
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Source: Social Butterfly PR
Rylee and Colton's ride continues...
One moment. Six years ago.
The night she made the world around me so much more than just a blur. Now it's the catalyst that threatens to tear us apart.
Our happily was supposed to be ever after. So why do I feel like it's slipping through my fingers?
How can one moment, when our world seemed so right, resurface and cause our perfect life to spiral out of control?
I can't lose her.
She's my checkered flag.
“Just wanted to check and make sure you and Rylee were okay.” Thank fuck he finally speaks, pulling me from the temptation to drown my problems away. I swivel so my back faces the kitchen—and the bottle—while I wait for him to say more, ask the questions I know are on his tongue. Yet I’m met with silence. Rolling my shoulders, I blow out a breath as I try to let in the one person who matters most when all I want to do is shut people out right now.
“I’m worried about her,” I confess as I look out the window. She’s still curled up on the chaise lounge where she’s been since Haddie left. The food next to her untouched. It’s fucking killing me to not go out there and talk to her, but I’m the reason she’s hurting.
I’m not going to let her pull away. Don’t think she will. But she asked for space, and I’m giving it to her. For now.
“It takes a lot to catch me off guard, Dad,” I say finally as my mind runs faster than I can say the thoughts, “and this . . . fuck . . . this just blindsided us.”
“I don’t want an explanation, son. I’ve lived this life too long to know how people twist and manipulate things to hurt others. I’m just calling to let you know we’re behind you. I’m here if you need to talk and to make sure you take care of her.”
“She told me she trusted me to handle this, and now? Now, I don’t even know what the fuck to say to her.”
“How about you start by using her name.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to yell at him for the comment, but it dies on my lips when I click another link with the mouse and comments fill the screen.
I’m sure my dad can hear the sound of my fist hitting the desk through the connection and yet he says nothing. The drywall calls to me. It’s so much more tempting to hit—satisfying—because the destruction is there, visible, and yet helps fucking nothing.
“Her name? Easier said than done, Dad. I brought her into my public world, pushed her, and now this is what she gets for loving me?”
“I bet she gets a whole lot more than that, Colton, or she wouldn’t be with you.” His words hang on the connection as I struggle whether or not to believe him. Is the more worth enough for her to stick with me through all of this?
His words repeat in my head.
I sure as fuck hope he’s right. Everything’s been too perfect as of late. Is this the other shoe dropping to put me back in my place and remind me how cruel fate can be?
“Remember, son, marriage isn’t about how madly in love you are through the good times, but how committed you are to each other in the bad times.”
And as cheesy as my dad’s advice sounds, I hear it. Hold on to it. And hope to fucking God it’s the truth because the shit has most definitely hit the fan.
“She won’t even speak to me.” I chuckle in frustration and force myself to turn off the computer. If I see one more image I have a feeling the drywall will be too tempting to resist. Unclench your fists, Donavan. Shove down the urge to hit something.
“I probably wouldn’t want to speak to you right now either,” he says.