Sheryl cocked up her eyebrows. “Excuse me if I think it’s a little late for that.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, it is surely too late for that. I’m well aware. I missed everything. Drank it all away. I don’t blame you for your reaction. I don’t blame you for a single thing. But I had to come see you and ask. I had to.”
Sheryl didn’t know what to make of all of this. This sudden appearance. She and Kristin were happy. They had this place. Sheryl had her career. They had good friends and a good relationship with Kristin’s parents. Sure—and this was the thought that stung the most—Sheryl was a bit loose-handed when it came to pouring wine, but she didn’t have any big complaints about her life. Everything was going great. And now her father had turned up. She’d put the anguish her parents caused her behind her decades ago. At least she thought she had. She hadn’t counted on her father materializing like that—all apologetic and sober.
When she was still a teenager, she had often fantasized about him sobering up, but had never detected any signs that he ever would. Thus, her father had lodged himself into her mind, and then her memory, as the pathetic drunk he was. Soon, she didn’t even feel sorry for him anymore. Because who was there to feel sorry for her? No one. She was only a young girl and she had gotten her shit together. She had found a way to recover from the unspeakable tragedy of her mother’s suicide. Her father hadn’t. It had taken him thirty-five years to pull himself together.
“All I ask is that you think about it.” He started pushing his chair back. “I just want to talk. Get to know you a little.” Was that a tear glistening in the corner of his eye? “Let me know.” He fumbled in his pocket and put a small piece of paper with a couple of digits scribbled on it on the table. “That’s the number of the place I’m staying. I don’t have a mobile phone, I’m afraid.”
Sheryl looked at the piece of paper. She imagined him writing down his number, his fingers trembling as he hoped for the best. Why was it so hard to give him a clear no? She wanted to, felt she needed to in order not to burst a huge delicate bubble inside of her, but she couldn’t.
She palmed the piece of paper and said, “I’ll think about it.”
Kristin heard Sheryl come up the stairs. She was about to make a phone call but waited so she could ask how things were going downstairs. Living above The Pink Bean was great in many ways—a very short commute, being the main one—but it did fail to put any kind of distance between her and what was now her job.
“You look pale as a sheet, babe,” Kristin said. “Did Josephine set something on fire?”
“I just talked to my father,” Sheryl said, and steadied herself against the fridge.
From the very beginning of their relationship, Sheryl’s father had always been an elusive figure. Ever since Sheryl opened up to her for the first time in the cabin in the mountains, Kristin had pledged never to push her on the subject. She figured that Sheryl would start the conversation if she wanted to have it. She never had an issue doing that when it concerned any other topic. But Sheryl never did talk about her father, and Kristin had continued not to push.
“Wh—How?” Kristin walked over to her. “Did he call?”
“He was here. I sat with him at a table downstairs.” Sheryl’s voice was shaking.
“What did he say?” Kristin didn’t know whether to put her hands on Sheryl’s shoulders or not. Whether to draw her into a hug and try to make the sheer shock displayed on her face go away.
“He’s sober.” Sheryl shook her head. “And dying, apparently. Nothing like death tapping on your shoulder to make you see the error of your ways, I guess.” Sheryl’s voice trembled with years—decades—of pent-up hurt and disappointment.
“Let’s sit down for a bit.” Kristin gently took her by the hand and walked her to the living room.
“I need something,” Sheryl said after she’d sat down. “Something strong.”
Kristin knew what she meant, didn’t hesitate, and fixed them both a whiskey, adding lots of ice, because it was the middle of the day.
“I think I might be in shock,” Sheryl said, tipped the tumbler to her lips and drank it all in one go, the ice clattering idly against the glass. “Never in a million years…” Her voice trailed off and she stared ahead of her.
“What did he want?”
Sheryl sighed. “To get to know me before he dies.” She turned to look at Kristin, and Kristin couldn’t remember a time she’d seen so much helplessness cross her partner’s face.