Last Name - Dr. Rebecca Sharp Page 0,58

they were wrong.

“Jack, I don’t know what to do,” I rasped. “I love her. I love her so damn much,” I confessed brokenly.

“That’s wonderful, son!” he exclaimed, reaching up and resting a hand on my shoulder. “So, what’s the problem?”

I drew an unsteady breath. “She works for the hotel, Jack.” I met his stare. “To be with her, I’d have to tell them… I’d have to tell them the truth about my father.”

I felt his fingers tense.

He was one of the few who knew. He was the only one to stand by my side knowing the weight I’d had to lift and the mistakes I’d fought tooth-and-nail to conceal.

“And you don’t think it’s time?” His voice echoed with the same tone that Carrie’s had taken last night.

“They’ve hurt… suffered so much.” My throat felt thick, closing tighter with each word. “What will happen… what will they think…”

I trailed off, expecting him to jump in with the right words—with the thing that would make it better, make my choice easier.

Instead, a heavy silence hung between us.

Jack had been my father’s friend. But he hadn’t known about the affair until his death either. We’d both been blindsided. And the fact it had been with my girlfriend at the time… I’d closed off. I’d closed down to anyone and anything that didn’t involve saving our business and protecting my family. And Jack… he’d supported me in the way he knew he had to: by letting me do what was necessary in order to feel safe, in order to show my family the loyalty they deserved—a loyalty my father had betrayed.

“What do you think about my shirt?” he asked suddenly, looking down and holding out his arms for me to examine.

My brow scrunched and I shook my head. What was he talking about?

“It’s fine. Nice. Look, Jack—”

“Does it look familiar?” he broke in again, now tugging the one sleeve out straight for me to take a better look.

The wine.

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s the one Carrie spilled wine all over the other night.”

A smile grew onto his cheeks. “Can’t even tell now, can you?” He admired the spotless fabric once more. “Stain is completely gone.”

“Yeah. It’s wonderful. You’ll have to give me the name of your dry-cleaner,” I huffed. “I have to go—”

The hand at the end of that very clean sleeve shot out and grabbed onto my arm with a strength that his age and appearance hid well.

“Son, this isn’t about the wine.”

My head tipped to the side, my confusion evident.

“I admired you for what you did all those years ago. I know you were just trying to protect them from the mistakes your father made,” he said. “But that’s not your job anymore, James. Especially when it comes at the cost of your happiness… and love.”

“Jack…”

“You need to tell them the truth, so all of you can move on.”

I flinched. “I can’t. I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Sometimes, son, other people’s mistakes are spilled on us. Maybe we are the ones left to clean them up, but that doesn’t make us responsible,” he urged. “I know you’re afraid of the stain that will be left, but when you have something that’s solid, that’s of good quality and built to last, it doesn’t matter what dirty truths are spilled on it. It may look bad—feel bad—at first. But it will all come out in the wash.”

My lips disappeared into a thin line. Now, I understood why he kept bringing up the damn wine stain.

Because just like his shirt, he knew my family, our bond, would survive whatever stained it—that we’d come out clean and as good as new in the end.

“I just… don’t want to be like him,” I said. “I don’t want to betray their loyalty… I don’t want to hurt them for my own sake.”

“Oh, James.” Jack shook his head, dismay bleeding into his voice. “Your father was the one to hurt them… it was his mistake. You’ve done more than anyone ever asked of you. You’ve made right what he tore apart. You took the responsibility. No one expects you to take the punishment for his mistakes, too… especially when that punishment involves losing your own happiness… and losing love.”

I stared at him, letting his words work through the armor I’d carried for so long, always in protector mode, forgetting that there was a line between righting wrongs and taking the consequences for mistakes I hadn’t committed.

“You do what you want, son,” he said quietly when I didn’t reply. “But what