I just don’t think I can indulge myself in it right now. It’s not the right time. Not with the craziness that is my life. Gabby calls it an overdeveloped sense of responsibility – and maybe it is. All I know right now, though, is that there is nobody else who can care for my father, and I won’t just throw him away like garbage because I want to have a social life.
“I care about him,” I finally reply softly. “But I’m not in a place to do anything about it.”
“You need to –”
I raise my hand to cut her off, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of bitter melancholy, knowing that I have to put something I want up on the shelf because I don’t have the time for it.
“I can’t, Gabs. Not right now,” I explain. “I won’t give up my advocacy work. Too many people are depending on me. And I can’t just abandon my dad.”
She frowns, a look of genuine disappointment on her face. But she also doesn’t look like she expected anything less from me. And at the same time, she looks sad – for me. Seeing that expression in her eyes feels like a kick straight to the solar plexus.
“At some point, you’re going to regret not choosing yourself, hon,” she almost whispers. “I know it’s hard, and I know he’s your dad, and you feel responsible for him – and that’s not a bad thing. But do you really think he’d want to see you living your life like this – with nothing in it but work and him to fill it?”
I want to be angry. I want to shout at her that she just doesn’t understand. She has two parents who are healthy and don’t need her to care for them twenty-four hours a day. I get so tired of people – not just Gabby – telling me what I need or what I should do. Especially people who don’t have to live this existence. People who haven’t walked in my shoes and don’t know what my life is like right now. People who just don’t know anything.
But she is right. My dad himself told me so. And instead of following along with that, I’ve chosen to make sure that he would never have to be without me. It’s my duty. My responsibility. But at the end of the day, it’s the choice I made. And that’s what really gets me.
Could I make a different choice and still live with myself? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
I know that Gabby is pushing me toward Sawyer because she loves me. I know it’s coming from a good place with her. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
“I know Gabs,” I tell her, biting back the bitterness in my voice. “I’m just – I’m not really in a place right now where I’m mentally and emotionally ready for a relationship.”
She looks like she wants to argue further, but gives me a brief nod and that small, sad smile instead. I know what her question was going to be – if not now, when?
It’s a good question. One that I have no answer to.
Chapter Sixteen Sawyer
It’s been almost two weeks since my truncated night with Berlin, and I haven’t heard a peep out of her. I’ve left her a couple of messages and sent her a couple of texts but have gotten nothing but crickets in return. It’s a reversal of fortune for me since I’m usually the one who loses interest and moves on from somebody quickly. I’m not the one who gets ghosted, and I have to say, I don’t particularly like it.
It makes me wonder if she regrets sleeping with me and thinks it was a mistake – and that she can correct that mistake by trying to wipe it away and pretend it never happened. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. But she should know that I’m not a man who’s easily deterred. If she really does regret it and doesn’t want to see me again, it would be better for her to just tell me straight up. It would save us both a lot of time and frustration.
I step off the elevator, no longer content to sit around and wait for her to call me back. It’s time to get some answers. The PD’s office is the usual hive of activity with people scurrying around like ants, doing their part to defend the downtrodden. I have to say, these people have a shit job and deal with shittier people, but I admire them for their dedication to it.
I make my way to Berlin’s office and find the door open, just a crack. I can hear her inside – it sounds like she’s on the phone – so I push the door inward and slip my hands into my pockets as I lean against the frame and wait for her to finish up. Her back is to me, and she’s speaking into the phone, gesturing with her hands animatedly. I get the feeling this isn’t anything to do with work.
“No, I just need a little more time. Please, just give me a few more days,” she pleads.
Her shoulders seem bunched so tight; I don’t know how she’s ever going to get the knots out of them. But there’s something more there – the way she’s slumped forward a bit,
