Filed to story: Sedona Preston and Logan Hayes Book PDF Free
“Of course, of course. I’m not suggesting otherwise.” Marcus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just saying, be mindful. Sedona seems like the type of woman who wouldn’t say anything even if she was suffering. The quiet ones often are.”
Before I could respond, he and Amy moved on to greet other guests, leaving me standing there with Catherine and an uncomfortable knot in my stomach.
“Don’t think too much bout it, nothing is happening between us, and rumors always spread regardless if it’s true or not. Catherine said softly.”
“I know.”
But the conversation had rattled me more than I cared to admit. I found myself scanning the room, noticing the glances sent our way, the whispered conversations behind raised hands and quick glances that showed they were talking, gossiping. How long had people been talking? How long had they been judging my relationship with Catherine, pitying Sedona?
The evening dragged on. I made the necessary rounds, smiled at the right people, made generous pledges to causes I barely understood anymore, but Catherine told me to do so, it will help broaden my reputation. But my heart wasn’t in it.
All I could think about was Sedona at that dinner Marcus had mentioned, laughing with Amy, charming the clients I needed to impress, saying she’d fly to Mexico without hesitation if I needed her.
Would I have done the same for her? If she’d been the one in danger, would I have dropped everything to save her?
I wanted to say yes. But looking back at the past few months at how I’d dismissed her concerns about Katherine, how I’d told her she was being selfish when she’d asked me to come home, how I’d hung up on her when she’d called during the Disneyland trip-I wasn’t sure I could honestly make that claim.
By the time the gala ended, I was exhausted and more than a little drunk. Catherine had left early, claiming her wrist was bothering her, and left me to spend my evening alone.
I drove home carefully, hyperaware of every other car on the road, every traffic light. The house was dark when I arrived, Mrs. Peterson having left hours ago after putting Nick to bed.
I checked on my son-found him sleeping peacefully, his new shoes placed neatly beside his bed-before heading to the master bedroom.
And there, in the silence and emptiness of the room I’d shared with Sedona for three years, I finally let myself admit the truth I’d been avoiding.
I missed her. i pulled out my phone and stared at our conversation thread. Three days since she’d left. Three days of silence, of waiting for her to crack, to apologize, to come crawling back.
But what if she didn’t? What If she was serious? What if I’d finally pushed her too far?
I typed out a message before I could overthink it: “Have you cooled down yet? Nick misses you. Come home so we can talk like adults.”
I hit send and waited, watching the screen like it held the secrets of the universe.
The message showed as delivered. Then read.
But no response came.
Minutes passed like that, me having absolutely nothing to do for once, but stare at my phone. Then an hour. I lay in bed, phone in hand, waiting for the three dots that would indicate she was typing, that she was ready to engage, that she was coming back.
Nothing.
LOGAN
I didnt want to admit it, but now that I was alone and not performing for anyone, I could finally say it.
The room felt too big, too empty without her, and although she may not be here, doesn’t mean that her presence wasn’t greatly felt. Every surface in the room held reminders of her-the book on her nightstand.
The framed photo of the three of us from Nick’s second birthday. The small jewelry box where she kept her jewerly, the ones she owned before marrying me.
I’d never bought her expensive jewelry. Never bought her much of anything, really. She never asked for things, never complained about what she didn’t have.
I’d thought that meant she didn’t want anything. Now I wondered if she believed that she wasn’t something permenant.
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it eagerly, hoping to see Sedona’s name.
Instead, it was an sss from my lawyer about a land acquisition.
I threw the phone onto the nightstand harder than necessary and stared up at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I decided. I’ll be the one to apologize to her and make her come home, no more waiting her out.
Because she had to come home. Where else would she go? What else did she have?
She couldn’t stay with that boytoy of her forever and she was an orphan, she had only me and Nick to come back to.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see was Sedona’s face at the hospital, as she told me she was done with me.
And for the first time since this whole nightmare had started, felt a flicker of real fear spark in my chest as I tried to suppress it. What if she meant it? What if she was never coming back?
The week that followed was the longest week of my life. Every morning, I woke up expecting to find Sedona in the kitchen, making breakfast like nothing had happened.
Every evening, I came home anticipating her car in the driveway, her shoes by the door, some sign that she’d returned to her senses and had decided to come home, but I was disappointed each time.
I’d sent three more messages since that first night. Each one had been read, none had been answered. The lack of response was somehow worse than an argument would have been. At least if she was yelling at me, we’d be communicating. This silence was final, and there was no coming back from this. I had no idea where she would be, if she was still in this city or had left to another country.
Nick asked about her constantly, missing her every day that passed without hearing from her as he became more insistent with his questions.
“When is Mom coming home? Can I call Mom? Does Mom know I miss her?”
I deflected, made excuses, promised she’d be back soon. But my confidence was waning.
Work became my refuge. I threw myself into meetings, into a world where I could control what was happening. But even there, Sedona’s absence followed me.
My assistant brought me lunch one day a sandwich from the deli across the street. I took one bite and immediately knew something was wrong. The bread was wheat instead of white, the mustard was yellow instead of dijon.
“This isn’t right,” I told her. “This isn’t what I order.”
She looked confused. “But this is what’s in your standing order, with the deli. I’ve been ordering the same thing for you for two years.”
Two years. I’d been eating these sandwiches for two years, never noticing they weren’t what I actually wanted because somehow Sedona had figured out what I wanted and kept ordering me a different thing, that I enjoyed. So now that she was gone, my assistant ordered what I had initially placed a long time ago and just realizing that it was a terrible order and didn’t suit my taste buds.
I hadn’t even noticed the change or thanked Sedona for that, had she been disappointed when she realized that I wasn’t appreciative of this.
The realization sat heavy in my stomach, made the sandwich taste like ash.
That evening, there was another charity event-this one was actually for Northwestern Memorial Hospital, ironically. I’d committed to attending months ago, had even purchased a table for ten. Usually, Sedona would have helped me figure out who to invite, would have made sure we had a good mix of clients and colleagues, and she would have handled all the small details that mader sure that everyone was comfortable with their seating arrangement and no incidents would occur.
