Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t twitch a muscle.
Sadness sweeps through me, but it doesn’t compel me to stay. It motivates me to leave, and I turn once again for the door.
“I used to be the type of person who could overcome anything,” he says with enough volume that shows he wants me to not only hear him but understand him.
I turn back. “What do you mean?”
Coen turns toward me, leaning one elbow on the rail. “I used to be the type who could overcome adversity, and that’s going back to my youngest days,” he says.
I move beside him and mimic his body position. “Did you grow up in a bad environment?”
Coen’s laugh is mirthless. “I don’t know. Some would say not since my parents are incredibly wealthy and well connected. I had everything I could ever dream of.”
His words hang in the air, so I prompt, “Except…”
“Except my parents’ love,” he says. “I was raised by nannies who were as cold and distant as my parents. They felt that raising a son meant giving him the best clothing, the finest food, and the most expensive education. The fanciest car when he turned sixteen, the exclusive sports prep schools. But that’s all they ever gave me.”
I reach out and lay my hand over his. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that. It’s the complete opposite of what I had. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents showered me with love and devotion.”
“I’d have given anything to have your life,” he says. “Back when I was a kid. As an adult, what’s done is done. But the point is, despite such a cold environment growing up, I didn’t let that make me into the image of my parents. I was inclusive, had a strong group of friends in the youth hockey world, and plenty of my friends’ moms became my surrogate moms. I think I turned into a good man, despite not having good role models at home.”
I think about all the articles I’ve read about Coen, and it tracks. By all accounts, he was a great guy, and he could’ve been something vastly different based on his upbringing.
“You are a good man,” I say.
Coen’s expression turns bitter and haunted. “No, I’m not. I’m the worst kind of person, and if you knew what was best for you, you’d walk away right now.”
“Maybe I will walk away,” I say, lifting my chin. “But not until I really understand what’s going on. The crash… that’s when things changed for you. At least from what I’ve been able to glean.”
“Yes, the crash was horrific, and I lost friends. It’s the single-most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to me.” His words sound ominous, and a chill runs up my back. “I felt guilty for not being on that plane. I felt guilty for living. I feel guilty for being grateful that I’m still alive. But those are things I can look at rationally and understand that circumstances beyond my control made it so I wasn’t on the plane.”
“Something else happened?”
“When I tell you I’m not a good man, I’m not being dramatic. I’m telling you that I’ve been disloyal. I betrayed someone close to me. I’m the type who will hurt you and anyone who tries to get close me. There is nothing redeemable—”
I throw myself at Coen, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him. Just to get him to shut up, because I can’t stand him talking that way about himself.
He balks for only a second before he kisses me back. One hand cradles my head, the other cups my ass, pressing me close, and he kisses us both breathless.
But he tears away, looking at me with wild eyes. “I don’t deserve to have this with you.”
He releases me so suddenly, I stumble. Coen’s hands ball into fists, as if he’s restraining himself from reaching out to me.
“Tell me,” I say firmly. “You need to unload whatever this is.”
“You’ll hate me,” he promises.
“I won’t,” I promise back. “Because I can already see that whatever it is you’ve done, you’re so remorseful for it, you’re willing to shut out the world and be left alone in your misery. I don’t know what it is, but you’ve already atoned, or you’re well on your way.”
“You can’t know that. You can’t possibly understand if my sin is even forgivable.”
I glare as I step back into him and poke him in the chest. “I can know that. You don’t give me enough credit, but I’m telling you, I’d never let a man do the things you’ve done to me if I didn’t think he had a good moral compass, that at his core, he’s decent. I believe that about you, even if you don’t.”
Coen’s expression becomes tortured with indecision. I can see how much he wants to continue to hate himself with just a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe he could like himself again.