Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

Was she? She’d never liked that house. She thought it was too average. And it was, but maybe—for her—I was too.

And maybe you agreed. Maybe that’s why you needed her to worship you.

Ouch. I felt confused suddenly, uneasy, awkward even.

Phoebe was watching me and some of the color had gone out of her face. She was obviously even more uncomfortable than I was. “I know you get up early,” she said, speaking quickly as though I might throw her out any moment. “I figured I might be able to catch you before work. I thought . . . well, I thought it was better if I just bit the bullet and came over rather than calling.” She let out an uncomfortable laugh that ended abruptly. She hadn’t thought I’d take her call. Would I have? Maybe not. She looked down, bit at her lip, looking unusually meek. When she glanced up through her lashes, her eyes were shiny. “Can we talk?” she asked.

“Sure.” I led her into the sitting room near the front of the house. She sat down on the couch and I took the chair across from it. She stared at me for a few moments and I detected her nervousness, but I also saw cautious hope.

“This is awkward,” she said softly. “But I . . . I know I owe you an explanation.”

I sighed. What was there to explain? I didn’t really require an explanation. Now, anyway. But I was willing to listen to one if she needed to say it. I resisted glancing toward the doorway with a view of the stairs. The ones I wanted to rush toward.

Phoebe nodded once, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “That day . . . I was drinking.” She shook her head. “I’m not using that as an excuse. But I was. And I met Easton and, God, he made me feel worshipped. Like I was the only woman in the world. And it was like a drug. I gave in, and I hate myself for it.” The last few words trailed off, into nothing.

I hate myself for it. For some reason, her statement brought me no satisfaction. I sat back, considering her, considering us. She’d been starved. For someone who worshipped her as much as she worshipped him. It didn’t make her actions right, but that’s what it boiled down to, didn’t it? I looked behind her for a moment, gathering my words. “Listen, I’m not happy about what happened. I wish you’d have talked to me instead of . . . well—”

“I know,” she said, color moving up her neck. “I wish I had too. So much.”

“But the truth is, we were never right together. You obviously felt that too.” I hadn’t loved her. I wasn’t going to say that because I had no interest in hurting her unnecessarily, even despite her betrayal. And I had my own blame to carry. I’d stayed with her for reasons that were less than noble. I’d taken her emotion for me, and given little of my heart in return. I hadn’t realized that at the time, but I saw it clearly now. But there were other reasons we wouldn’t have worked out too. “A small-town cop, even the chief of police, would never make you happy in the long run, Phoebe.”

I saw the pain that skittered over her face. Maybe she still had some feelings for me, even if she knew what I was saying was true. She sighed, shrugged, picking at a thread on the throw pillow she’d moved into her lap, a hideous cross-stitch attempt that declared Home is Where the Hooch is. Whoever had made it had imbibed in more than their fair share. Phoebe looked up at me, her eyes imploring. “I thought maybe you’d want to run for some sort of office . . . there’s a senator who lives up the street from the Buchanans.” Her eyes moved back to that thread, staying there.

I considered what she’d said, remembering that Haven had asked about that. At the time, it’d seemed to come out of nowhere. But sitting there, I realized she’d brought it up right after she’d mentioned that a couple people at the club had been discussing me. Had they also mentioned Phoebe’s aspirations on my behalf? That seemed to fit. And it sounded like Phoebe, planning for things that met her needs, but not sharing them with me.

I sighed, scrubbing my hand down my face. “You never asked me. You never even asked if I wanted that.”

She bit at her lip. “I just figured . . . I could persuade you eventually.”

God. It would have been a lifetime of being maneuvered, the same way I’d always felt when I was under the control of my mother, and even beyond that. I’d let her continue to do it, because it had been habit by that point. Familiar. I didn’t want to be maneuvered or manipulated anymore. I wanted to be asked what I wanted for my life.

The way Haven had done.

And then I wanted to be listened to and supported in those dreams.

And I wanted to do the same for someone else.

But that would never be Phoebe. And deep inside, I had felt that. I hadn’t seen a future with us. Not really. The truth of the matter was that I had never even really known her, because I hadn’t wanted to.

I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “You wouldn’t have persuaded me. So you wouldn’t have been happy. Or if you had, I wouldn’t have been happy, and things would have crumbled.” I gave her a small smile. “In a funny way, you saved us both a helluva lot more misery.”

She breathed out a smile, but the pain was still in her eyes. “Is there any chance you and me—”

“No.” I paused. “But I wish you happiness. I mean that.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and she nodded, giving me a small, sad smile. “Thank you, Travis. I wish you happiness too. And I hope . . . maybe someday you can forgive me.”