“Don’t run from me. Don’t run from us. What we have is fun and good,” he says.
Placing my hands on my hip, I say, “Yeah, you’re one to talk. Let me ask you again. Why did you really come here?”
He steps closer and then the next thing I know I’m back in his arms and just like that the fight’s gone from me. The tears I’ve tried to hold in check fall and his soothing words of comfort make me feel worse. I’m a fake. He’s fallen for a fake but telling the truth won’t free me.
I let him lead me to his cabin but I feel wooden. He urges me to the sofa and then he’s slipping off my sneakers, peeling down my socks and massaging my feet. God it feels good.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks, looking at me with real concern.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I know I’m being a bitch but this works both ways.
He drops my feet and gets up and grabs two cold beers. Uncapping them, he hands me one and I watch him run a hand through his hair.
He takes a long swig of beer and just when I thought he’d clam up he turns to me. “I keep replaying everything my father told me and I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
I lean into him. “You weren’t expecting it. That’s normal. What you’re going through are the stages of grief.”
“Did I tell you what happened?”
I shake my head and urge him on.
“Jesus Christ, my father was so drunk he stumbled into the street, passed out and got hit by a car. By the time he got into a hospital he was a mess and they told me h liver was shot. Total liver failure, according to the doctors. That’s basically code for he drank himself to death.”
“Blake, like I said before, you did the right thing and it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
He gets up and before I realize it he’s kicked the small side table hard. It shatters. “You don’t fucking get it. Christ this is my fault. I should have taken his call.”
I force him back down to the sofa. “This wasn’t your fault. And you beating yourself up over all the “what ifs” isn’t going to bring him back or make you feel better.”
“Did you study psychology at university?” he says, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Nope, not me. University isn’t on my schedule yet.”
“It’s not for everyone. I found it really hard. I juggled a heavy course load, work and my father. Back in university he ended up in hospital with a broken leg after falling down some steps in a drunken stupor. It was four weeks of hell for me. Between my courses and work, I’d race down to his apartment to help him out.”
I cup his face, needing for him to look at me. “Blake, you were a damn good son to him. Try to remember the good times.”
He closes his eyes like he’s in pain. “I’m not sure I have any.”
“Dig deep. They’re in there. Your father…did he ever hit you?”
“Hell no,” he answers.
“Did he belittle you or yell at you?”
“No. He always said I should do the right thing for me,” he says, and I see a flicker of a smile.
I run my hand up and down his back, offering comfort through my hands, just like he had when he had massaged my feet.
“I guess I just can’t get over that he’s gone. Life with him wasn’t easy.”
“I gathered that,” I reply.
“You don’t get it. I always felt embarrassed by him. I never wanted anyone to know he was my father. Christ, one day he showed up at my high school, sitting there by the front entrance and he was totally out of it so I just walked right by him, like he was a piece of dirt. You know the worst part?”
“What?”
“He doesn’t know I did that. I never told him. God, I’m so fucked up.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He moves his head so it’s resting in my lap and I run my fingers through his hair.
“You’re not fucked up. You’re great.”
I scoff. “I think you’re dreaming. Maybe at one time, but the truth changed all that.”
“God. Did you ever think life would be so damn hard?”
“No, honestly. My life started out pretty sheltered and I had no frigging idea how hard it would become, but I think for me that was a good thing. If I’d known maybe…”
“Maybe…”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have leapt at the chance to change. I honestly don’t regret it. I’ve learned more about myself than I ever dreamed.”
“Did you dream of me?”
“What, you’re back to your corny lines?”
He rolls over so he can look at me and my breath gets caught. I love those hazel eyes of his.