Diary of a Bad Boy(64)
He tugs on his hat and keeps his voice down so I can barely hear him. “I would love to settle down, put a ring on Whitney’s finger, but there’s a lot stopping me. She’s six years younger than I am, for one.”
I hide my cringe. “Age difference doesn’t really mean anything these days.”
“She also works with me.”
Christ. “You know, office romances are in right now.”
“And what about Sutton?”
I wave him off. “She probably has her own things she’s dealing with. Just from getting to know her through this camp project, I’d say she’d be cool with it.”
“I don’t know.”
I shrug. “Fine, be a lonely bastard for all I care. Just show up for your obligations so I get paid.”
He chuckles and then grows serious. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, knowing exactly what he’s talking about but wanting to stall the conversation.
“When are you going to settle?” I notice he doesn’t say settling down, but again, I want to ignore that jibe. He’s not being cruel.
The sun starts to descend behind the horizon, casting the sky in an orange bliss, the clouds bordered in purple. I can see why Foster loves it out here. Calm and peaceful, away from it all. It reminds me of Killarney a bit, yet it’s not as lush. I could possibly see myself relaxing in a place like this one day, minus all the horse shit.
“Settling down isn’t for me. Fast-paced life, that’s me.”
“It’s not, and I didn’t say settling down. I said settle.” He stops his horse, so I pull on Grammy’s reins, and thankfully she listens. “In order to settle down, you need to find what it is that brings you calm. It’s in you, and for a week or so, I saw it. And now it’s gone. You like to think fast-paced is the life you need, but you’re covering up for the life you really want.”
“Oh yeah?” I chuckle. “And what life do I really want?”
“The one you never had as a kid.”
Hell, I’ll give it to Foster, he sure knows how to identify someone’s weak spot. He should be my therapist, because in one sentence he virtually wrapped up my entire life in a nutshell.
“Yeah, well, not everyone can have the white picket fence.”
“You can, you just choose not to.”
I glance at Sutton, who dismounts her horse minus Josh this time. Damn right. “It’s easier that way.”
“To not let yourself feel?” Foster presses.
“Exactly. The minute you allow yourself to feel is the minute it gets thrown back in your face. I prefer to be numb, which has been pretty damn hard to do since I got here. Thanks for that.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but instead stares at the sunset, looking regal as fuck on his steed. “I’ve worked with a lot of young boys who’ve had that attitude. I’ve seen some grow into men who find their way through the murk of this world, and I’ve seen some not make it.” Foster turns to me. “You’re not a boy, but you’re not a man either, Roark. You’re somewhere between. A man takes his life into his hands and makes the most of it. You’re a damn fine agent, and I’m grateful for you, but you’re also riding a thin line of losing everything you’ve ever worked for. Don’t be a fuck-up, be a man.” Looking me dead in the eyes, he says, “There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to decide whether he’s going to take action and make something of himself, or if he’s going to sit idly and never reach his full potential.” He clasps my shoulder. My mouth is dry, and my stomach is flipping in knots. “You have a lot to give, allow yourself to hand it out. You’d be surprised by how happiness can change your entire outlook on life.”
Smiling crookedly at me, he gives me one more pat before taking off toward the barn. I should dislike what he said to me, but instead I’m caught by his words.
“. . . you’re also riding a thin line of losing everything you’ve ever worked for. Don’t be a fuck-up, be a man.”
Be a man.
Don’t be a fuck-up.
That’s a fucking blow to hear, yet, somehow it resonates with me unexpectedly. My mind is whirling with possibilities.
Don’t be a fuck-up.
Be a man.
Two days later Foster’s words are still bouncing around in my head.
I know we’ve worked together for a while, but he was able to pick me apart in seconds. There are reasons I don’t want to allow myself to truly feel beyond lust. Lust is easy. Safe. Never leads to disappointment, either in me or the other person. Love is conditional. Limited. “You’ve always been ungrateful for everything I’ve given you. At this point it would be easier if you were dead. At least I could mourn the loss of my oldest son and move on.” Move on. My own ma would prefer I was dead. What does that say about love? The people who are supposed to love me unconditionally only give a shit about the green I have in the bank. Wish I was dead. What does that say about me?
Fuck, I need a drink. I need something to rid this blooming feeling of inadequacy inside of me. Drinking makes it easy to quickly forget. It’s why I live on a whiskey diet, so I don’t lie awake at night, thinking of all the things I could have but am too goddamn scared to attempt to have.