Savior Complex: A Small Town Love Triangle Romance

“Sorry,” I mutter. She shakes her head, then motions for me to follow her into the kitchen. All I want to do is go to my room and close the door—maybe punch a few things.

No, all I want to do is call Nina and see if she’s okay. To tell her I’m sorry. To try to undo all the damage I’ve done to her heart.

I trail behind my mom instead.

“Sit,” my mom orders, pointing at the bench seat like I’m five instead of thirty. I do as I’m told, and she places a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say. Food was the furthest thing from my mind, but now that I smell the buttery richness of the sandwich, my stomach growls eagerly. I dip a triangle in the creamy soup and take a bite. My eyes immediately close, and comfort envelopes me like a hug.

“Doug Murphy called this morning,” my mom says, and I almost choke on the soup. Doug Murphy is the head of the convention, and while I can’t be sure, he may have noticed my absence throughout the weekend.

“Oh yeah? Did he tell you how good the convention went?”

“I’m sure he did,” she answers. “He talked to your dad, so I’m not really sure what he said. I’m sure you’re aware of how proud he is of that convention, just like your father was when he was chair.”

I nod, but my ears feel hot, especially with the hawkish way she’s watching me.

“He figured you’d be taking on the chair role in the next year or so, you know, for the sake of tradition.”

“I hadn’t really thought of it,” I lie. I’d always figured I would too—if I were staying in Sunset Bay.

“Which is why he was so disappointed you had to leave early with Nina.”

I keep my eyes on my soup, no longer tasting it as I spoon it into my mouth.

“Where were you?”

“A buddy of mine needed ranch help,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “I’d hoped to be back before the end, but it wasn’t in the cards.”

“Brayden. Look at me.”

What is it with moms? How do they master that tone that strikes fear in the bravest heart? When I’m seventy years old and she’s in her nineties, she’ll still get me to fess up just by using that tone.

I look at her.

“Tell me what happened.”

The truth is in my throat. If I so much as cough, I’ll spill everything. I shake my head at her. Her mouth sets in a firm line, and I see the disappointment on her face. It makes me want to crumble into ash and blow away.

“Your father wants to speak with you,” she finally says. “I suggest you get your story straight before you see him.” With that, she exits the room, leaving me alone at the table with my soup and enough shame to bury myself in.

Like I’m fucking five years old.

I toss the rest of the soup in the sink and feed my sandwich to Cherokee, who’s been waiting for this moment all his life. Then I head for the study, knowing it’s better to face the music now than to wait any longer.

My dad is sitting at his desk, making notes in the ledger. He’s so old school it hurts. I have a program on the computer that can handle all our bookkeeping, and he still insists on writing it down by hand.

“Have a seat,” he says, not even turning around. I take my place in the cool leather chair behind him and wait. My dad continues with the books, as if I’m not even there. The air in the room is thick with judgment.

What’s the worst he’s going to do, even if he knows the truth? Take the farm away? Fine. My fiancé will be thrilled with that one. Lecture me? I’ve survived quite a few of those. Believe that I’m worthless? Been there, felt that.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got cold feet before I married your mom?”

Shit. He’s going the moral of this story route.

“No,” I say, fighting the urge to crawl out of my skin.

“Her name was Betty Sherman.”