“Have you spoken to Brittany lately?” she asks, good-naturedly.
I open a box containing a new set of decorative bowls.
“She responded to a few of my texts. She’s starting her final exams soon.” Brittany returned to her mom’s as soon as we got back from St. Thomas. As her father, I shouldn’t say it, but I was relieved to see her go. Considering how rude my daughter was, I appreciate Petra asking after her, even if it’s only out of politeness.
“I remember those days,” she says. “Eden would stay up all night with her flashcards. I’d have to check on her to make sure she actually went to bed.”
“I don’t think that’ll be an issue for Brittany. It’s getting her to study that’s the challenge.”
Petra chortles. Having her in my apartment hasn’t been nearly as intrusive as I thought it would be. For one, the penthouse is large enough that we can avoid each other when we want to forget that we’re supposed to be married.
But Petra being in my home means Eden is in my home. That’s a concept I still can’t wrap my head around, partly because I hardly ever see her.
We’ve been back from St. Thomas for about a week now, and I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve crossed paths. She’s avoiding me, and I don’t blame her. What I did to that sweet girl is inexcusable. She should hate me. In fact, that’s exactly what I was aiming for when I told her it was all a mistake.
When I overheard the things she said to Brittany about growing up with ‘less than nothing’ as a child, my heart shattered in my chest. I knew that Dan was in a bind when he came to me for help all those years ago, but back then, I thought what he needed was tough love. I didn’t stop to think about his family’s short-term needs. If I had, maybe Eden wouldn’t have gone hungry.
I know it’s not all my fault. Dan made his choices, but I can connect the dots far enough to where I see how my own inaction led to some of the hardest times in Eden’s life. I’m partly to blame for her suffering. What right do I have asking her to call me daddy? I’m the reason her dad is dead.
Still, while I have good reason to push her away, I feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. Looking back on the night we spent together, how she gazed up at me like I hung the moon, I’d give anything to take back the hurt I caused her. Anything to have her in my arms again, her taste on my tongue.
But that’s not going to happen. Because she doesn’t look at me anymore, and I don’t look at her. That’s the way it should be. How it should’ve been from the start.
I finish helping Petra unpack the kitchen and then retire to my home office to double-check the financial figures before I leave for my business trip. It’s late by the time I shut down my laptop. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost midnight. I have to shower and pack and then call a car to take me to the airport.
I’ll be in New York for two weeks, possibly three if I find a good reason to stick around. I’m sure Petra would appreciate the chance to settle in without me here, and it’ll be good for me to be far away from Eden.
As I make my way from the office to my bedroom, I note the pieces of her I encounter. Reminders of her presence: her jacket left on the couch, the sweet smell of her perfume lingering in the hall, her teal bathing suit hanging up in the laundry room.
That last reminder made my stomach clench when I saw it. For the rest of the day, I was fighting back not only my guilt, but my arousal.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself, as I step into the shower. I have everything under control.
But my cock betrays me, growing hard as my mind rewinds itself back to that night in my hotel room. I refuse to let myself go there, no matter how bad my balls ache or how long it’s been since I orgasmed.
I get dressed and start packing. Clothes, shoes, toiletries. I head to the kitchen to grab a few protein bars and my favorite water bottle.
My body is on autopilot as I open the freezer and pull out the vodka I have stashed in the back. I’m not a heavy drinker, but lately I’ve been self-prescribing to help calm my mind down. Not too much, just enough to take the edge off.
I pour the vodka into a glass, about two shots’ worth, and shoot it back. The cold burn warms my throat and chest. It feels good, like a punishment. What I deserve.