Post by Henley on Feb 2, 2022 23:47:05 GMT -8
A deep, weary disappointment lurked in her teary blue eyes as she stood on the opposite side of the black Beamer, staring back at him. Looking at her, Alex knew instinctually that this was going to be the last time he saw her for a while. It wasn't going away for the weekend to see her best friend in Baltimore, it wasn't 'taking the kids to see her parents for a week while he sorted things out at work' -- no, this was the stark, brutal reality of years of neglect finally having the bill come due.
"You can pick them up on Saturday... if you can spare the time."
Not spiteful, just resigned, like they'd had conversations on the theme of his time so many times that she was sick of it. It was said in a way that told him that she didn't think he would, and deep in his heart of hearts, he knew he wouldn't.
"Alysse, come on..."
The door closed with a final click. His daughter, a beautiful girl of five with curly black hair and her mother's sparkling eyes, looked over at him through the window of the back seat with worry in her eyes. She raised her little hand to wave, clearly aware something was wrong, but not having context. His son of three was in the seat next to her, his stupid mushroom cut that Alysse thought was adorable bobbing as he played some game on the tablet. Oblivious. Too young to understand.
"Fuck."
As the BMW pulled away and faded from view beyond the lawn hedges, anger filled his heart and he sat down on the stoop, swearing and staring at the wedding rings in his hand. It didn't click that he'd chosen the office over his family one time too many. It didn't click that he'd fucked up --
-- Henley gasped, startling awake as pain spiked through the ragged slash across his chest. Cursing the madness the Thorns had put upon him in the dive that led to the Angel's edged kiss, he shifted to sit up. He groaned, gingerly lowering the blanket and reaching over to turn on the Tiffany lamp on his bedside table. Light poured over his bare chest, and he lifted the bandage a little to check his injury. It hadn't dehisced. It hadn't bled through the bandage.
Good. He reached over and shut off the light. Had the pain really been there, or was it just a manifestation of what the Icon had revealed to him?
In his mind, he played it over and over again, a memory on repeat like a new song played one too many times. He hadn't remembered a family, but now he felt it, a love lost - no, three, each special in their own way. Certainty, now, that this was his fault even if he hadn't known back then. He didn't know back then what he knew now, didn't have control of Desire like he once did.
Retirement.
He had known it was his greatest desire before the Icon, but he had never quite known why. The ability to just stop, just be. Why his brokerage had the culture it did, why he hired Anthony Cartwright, why he worked two fucking hours a day and cheated with magic for the rest...
There was probably more context out there, more out there like what the Guardian had sold them, lurking in the Thorns. But it was difficult; difficult not to seize on this profound piece and think of it as the whole, difficult to imagine that more context would tell him anything else other than what he was now sure about.
He'd fucked his family up. And he was pretty sure it was for the job. A culture of working to the bone, of competition for partnership, of driving to be the best as if the money made it all worth it... fucking pointless.
A stray thought: was his family fatherless, or did his Fetch exist? Was it bitter and alone, paying child support and living in the wreckage he'd left behind? Or had it fixed things, made better choices than he had?
All the money in the world was pouring in, but no amount of Mitchell Carr's gratitude and Nimbus's investments would fill the hole that knowing they were out there had left behind.