The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(94)

I only wish that were true.

“Do you not think you’ll be ready in time?” Tank asks. He stands from the table and walks over to the living area. Chase and Collin follow, and Pat flops onto the couch, putting his feet up on the table. “Because the timeline doesn’t matter. If you’re not fully up and operational by the festival, it’s fine.”

I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t do it.”

“What do you need help with?” Collin asks. “I could take some time off from the gym if you need me.”

NOW he wants to help. I’m already shaking my head. “It’s too much.”

“It’s too much because you’re trying to do it all on your own,” Pat says. “Just like you always do. Stop trying to be a one-man show. You can’t shoulder it all.”

“Exactly,” I snap. “I can’t do it all, and I’m done trying to hold it together. This isn’t what I wanted.”

Tank frowns. “What isn’t what you wanted?”

I wave a hand, feeling that same rise of hot volcanic pressure I did last night when I exploded on Winnie. “None of this is what I wanted. This town. A big brewery with a bar and events and people.”

All the people. I picture the crowd from Feastivus, imagine trying to pay attention to temperatures and timing and shutting off the right valves while a crowd of people look on. I shake my head.

“I don’t—I can’t.”

“What can’t you do?” Harper asks softly.

I stare down at the worn knees of my jeans, where the deep blue has given way to white. “Any of it. I’m screwing it all up. It’s not what I want, and yet, I can’t fail. I can’t let you all lose everything because you bet on me.”

“We care more about you than we do about the money,” Tank says.

“Speak for yourself,” Pat chimes in. “I care about the money.”

“Shut it, Patty,” Collin says.

“No,” Pat says, getting to his feet. “Superman over here doesn’t get to try and save the day all alone, then torpedo the whole world when he realizes he can’t save it by himself. He hasn’t wanted our help. Now, he’s realizing he can’t do it by himself, like we’ve been saying all along, and rather than try, he’s walking away. I’m not okay with this. Sorry, not sorry.”

I lumber to my feet, spinning to face Pat even as the blood pounds in my head. “When did you ever offer anything other than opinions I didn’t ask for? All I really wanted was to brew beer and make furniture. A simple, quiet life.”

“The life of a hermit,” Pat says, and the comment barely registers because he just never stops.

“I only wanted this for you.” I sweep my arms out, not even sure who I’m gesturing to. Because if this isn’t my dream, whose is it? I’m all tangled up, unsure of anything except my own failure. “I didn’t want this for me. And now, it’s too late, and it’s too much, and I can’t keep holding things together for everyone else.”

“No one asked you to hold things together!” Pat shouts.

“No one had to!” I shout back. “But someone had to make sure you all ate, that your clothes got washed, that you got out of bed in the morning and got on the bus. It all fell on me. It always feels like it’s on me, and I can’t do it anymore!”

There is silence when I finish, in the room and, for the first time in a day, in my head. Shame curls up and takes residence where all the anger and pressure had been building.

When I speak again, my voice is a whisper dragged over broken glass. “I can’t do it anymore. I’ve wrecked it all—the brewery, my family, her … I’m done. I’m done.”

I collapse back into the chair, dropping my head in my hands, my breaths heavy and my eyes burning. I’m exhausted. I’m not on edge anymore because I’ve gone so far over the edge.

I’m a disappointment. To myself. To Winnie. To my family.

Not only have I failed everyone in my life I care about, but I just dredged up a bunch of long-buried things and dropped them like a dirty bomb in the middle of a family poker game.

And then there’s the fact that everyone has money on me.

A heavy arm comes around my shoulders, and I can’t help it—I flinch before I relax under my dad’s touch. I don’t pull away, but I can’t manage to unlock my jaw or untense my shoulders.

“Son, I am so sorry. Sorry so much fell on you after we lost your mom. I don’t think I realized how much you had to carry. I was just … grieving.” His voice catches in his throat.

“You were allowed to grieve.”

I’m not looking at him, but I still see his head shaking. “Not at the cost of my children. I didn’t realize how all this felt for you. I was so grateful for you helping—I am so grateful. But James, you were never supposed to pick up all these burdens and carry them around.”

“It’s fine,” I mutter.

“It isn’t fine. You are a caretaker, James. You’ve always been so strong—for yourself and for those around you. Even when you didn’t think anyone noticed. We did. And we don’t thank you enough.”

“Maybe because he’d probably fight us if we tried,” Harper says, but her voice is gentle.