Beautiful Boy(40)

I ran my fingers along his jaw and focused on his downturned lips,  yearning to kiss them but refraining. "There's no need to ask that  question, Nolan, because it won't happen. You've already made huge  strides. See? You've adapted. So I'm not worried at all about you being  right."

"Can you just answer the question, please?"

I knew he needed something solid, and even though I knew in my gut his  scenario would never play out, I gave him what he sought. "If you think  for one second, at the end of this … however it goes … that I'll simply walk  away from you, then stop right now. Because that's never going to  happen. There will never be an ‘end' to this."

His eyes may have closed and his shoulders might've slackened, but there was no mistaking the curl at the corners of his mouth.

"I meant what I said the other day … "

I pressed my lips to his in a chaste kiss and then pulled away. "I know, Nolan. I know."

"You won't even throw me a bone here, will you?" He laughed, but it didn't hide the hopelessness in his eyes.

Everything in me screamed to tell him, to confess those three little  words, but I knew it would be useless. It would only offer him  reassurance. And that's not what I wanted it to mean. I wanted it to  mean everything to him.

"When you're ready."

"Fine," he said with a huff of air. "I'll take the damn camera. We'll  make a darkroom and I'll take pictures, even though I'll just be wasting  your film. But only under one condition."

I arched an eyebrow at him, unsure how I felt about agreeing to his stipulations while he remained inside me-soft, but there.

"You have to let me take pictures of you. Whenever I want."         

     



 

My lips split into a triumphant grin. "You've got yourself a deal."





I left his office with a smile on my face, feeling victorious. He'd  taken the camera-it was the first step. Now I only needed him to take  pictures and let go of the anger and resentment he'd been carrying  around with him. I knew if he'd just give himself the chance, he'd come  around.

I didn't care if all he did was sit on his couch and shoot pictures of  his wall. It didn't matter to me if he never rediscovered his love of  photography, so long as he unearthed the part of him that once did. At  this point, I'd try just about anything to pull him out of there.

And I knew Nolan's problems stemmed from more than one instance. From  what he'd told me, it had started long before our situation. But I  didn't know enough to figure out who or what had lit the initial  slow-burning flame that would eventually engulf him.

Yes, he'd been sent into war due to one mistake, but I'd be willing to  bet something else would've taken him down had that not happened. And  then, he'd have some other excuse, other than a prosthetic leg and scars  to attribute to his self-hatred.

If only he'd see it, too.





Sixteen





Novah had spoken to me previously in the week regarding the dinner Shari  had promised us. We'd made plans for Saturday, and I became very  excited about it.

I'd spent every waking minute of the last two days working on converting  my spare room into a darkroom. I'd even taken personal days at work  just to finish it in time. I couldn't wait to show Novah all I'd done.

I couldn't wait to see her reaction.

But I had to cancel. My father had called me on Wednesday, right before  Novah came in to surprise me during lunch. He told me of his plans to  make a trip down, and how he and my mother wanted to see me.

He then called me Friday night to inform me his visit would be the next  day. They wanted to have dinner with me, so I had to cancel with Novah  and her friends. I didn't want to, but my father had left no room for an  argument.

But then he changed his plans … again.

Instead of dinner, he called me early this morning and told me he could  only meet me for breakfast. In the end, I canceled dinner for no reason  at all.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot where my dad had asked me to  meet him, he was already standing by the front door. I glanced at the  time on my dash and noticed I was two minutes early, yet he stood there  with his arms crossed and a scowl on his aging face as if I'd been an  hour late.

I should've backed up and left.

"Where's Mom?" I asked as I walked toward him.

"That's why I had to change it from dinner to breakfast. She couldn't  make the trip, had things to take care of at home. So I'm leaving after  this to head back to Tallahassee."

Knowing my mother wouldn't be here to act as a buffer set a flaming knot  in my gut. It'd been proven time and time again throughout the years  that nothing good ever came from alone time with Dad.

I nodded and made a move to walk in the door, but he stopped me, holding  his hand out between us. I glanced down at it, my brow furrowed,  questioning what it meant. But then he moved in and wrapped an arm  around my shoulder to pull me closer.

The hug seemed stiff, came off as forced, but maybe it was just me. It  wasn't like this kind of behavior was normal for us. But at the same  time, it was … nice.

After the embrace, I followed him inside where we were immediately led to an isolated booth in the back.

My dad cleared his throat and stuck a finger between his collar and his  neck, which typically indicated when he had something serious he wanted  to discuss. It served to spike my anxiety and caused a wave of dread to  crash over me.

"I am attending a banquet on Tuesday, and I needed to talk to you before  it takes place," he began and then cleared his throat. "I've decided to  run for the White House again. Your mother and I have discussed it, and  we both believe this is a good time to do it."

"That's really great, Dad. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you, son. That really means a lot to me."

I narrowed my eyes on him, questioning to myself why he appeared to be  so nervous. "As much as I appreciate the gesture of you coming here to  tell me face to face, it really wasn't necessary. You could've called me  and told me over the phone. I would've understood."

He did the thing again with his finger and his collar, and it sent my  pulse into overdrive. My stomach twisted and clenched, and I suddenly  became aware he had much more to tell me.

"Well, as you know by now, your mother and I won't be the only ones  involved in this. You will be, too. You know how this works. Except,  this time, it'll be worse than before. This isn't a state position. I'm  running for the President of the United States."         

     



 

"So … you came to give me a heads up the media might be probing into my  life to some degree? Dad, honestly, I appreciate it, but you didn't have  to drive six hours here to tell me this. You could've called me."

He shook his head and glanced down at the table. And as if that wasn't  bad enough, he began to fiddle with the saltshaker-another nervous habit  he had. "The public needs to see your support. Don't get me wrong,  Nolan. I appreciate you giving it to me, but people need to see it. The  public needs to see a unified front with the family."

My stomach soured. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop myself  from doubting him. I longed to believe he truly wanted my support  because he loved me and valued having me by his side, but I couldn't  block the uncertainty from creeping in. The doubt left me thinking the  only reason he was here, why he came to me, was because he needed  something from me-more than my support.

"No, Dad. I can't do this. I have my own life. I've moved on. I can't be roped back in to campaigning. I never did like it."

He leaned into the table, commanding my attention with his eyes-the same  eyes I see every day in the mirror. "I only need your support."

"And you have it." He did. I'd support him no matter what he decided to  do. But he didn't need me in front of the camera, speaking on his behalf  in order to prove it.

He sucked on his teeth and leaned back against his seat. His gaze  pierced mine as his shoulders squared. "You know what I mean, Nolan.  After what happened to you, everyone will be very interested in your  life, interested in your survival. Your story is truly one of an  American hero."

My heart hiccupped in my chest at his opinion of me. An American hero?  I'd never heard him say those words to me before. My brain went into  overdrive questioning his motives. I didn't know if I believed he truly  meant the words coming from his mouth. The realistic part of me had  become convinced it was a ploy to pull me back in, to use me as his  personal trophy and set me on his political mantle.

"I don't want anyone to be interested in me. You're the one running for  office, not me. I don't want to have a thing to do with any of it. I  need to live my life, move on from the past-not continue to dissect it."

"If I don't have you by my side, then how do you think it'll look?"

"Like I'm grown up and I have my own life."

"I'm not asking you to be front and center, at every rally, at every  town-hall meeting. But you being active in the campaign is imperative.  It says so much to the ones watching our every move. What would it look  like if the son of the family man is missing from my corner?"