Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Well, that’s something we can agree on,” he says. “She’s a good woman. Has been a very good mother.”
She sacrificed everything for Oliver, Noah, and me. I respect that and I’m thankful. I just wish she hadn’t had to do it.
“I’m going to go now, Dad,” I say.
I glance across at him as he slides his palm over his hair.
“I do love you, you know. That’s why—”
“Don’t do that. Don’t dress up your betrayal in love. You had a whole other family. You didn’t do that because you loved us.”
“But I didn’t walk out,” he says.
Is that how he justifies it to himself? Is that how he shuns responsibility? By saying it could have been worse.
“No, you didn’t walk out.”
I need to leave. The man I thought my father was has disappeared. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. I no longer think he hung the moon, although I think he might take credit for it, if anyone let him.
“I love you,” Dad says again. “And I know I got things wrong—I’m still getting things wrong. I don’t want to… lose you.” His eyes are tired and sad. I don’t know what to say to him. “I never wanted to lose any of you.” What he’s saying is selfish, but I know now that’s who he is. At least it feels more authentic than anything he’s said so far today. It’s like he’s lowered his shield, just a little bit. It brings a sliver of hope that there might be some possibility of a relationship going forward.
“You need to stop saying your actions didn’t affect us. What happened was your fault. Until you accept that…” I leave the rest unspoken, but I hope he hears the truth in my silence: Until he takes accountability for his actions, I won’t be able to forgive him.
He swallows and chews the side of his cheek, a habit he’s always had. But maybe it’s a tell. Evidence of vulnerability.
“It was my fault.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. Instead he stares at the climbing frame my brothers and I spent hours hanging from, trying to best each other’s times. “I should never have taken up with Rita in the first place.”
It’s a start, even if my father will never again be the man I thought he was.
Then it hits me like a freight train: Worth is the man who steps up and shoulders responsibilities that aren’t his to keep his family together. The one who worries about his sister dropping out of college. The one who flies me across the country to visit my sick father.
He’d never betray me like this.
Why am I concerned that I won’t be able to trust Worth when he’s so clearly ten times the man my father is? Why do I think I don’t know him or can’t trust my judgment of him?
My stomach begins to churn and my cheeks burn hot, despite the cold. What was I thinking, letting Worth go? I was right that he deserves more than someone who doesn’t trust him, but I can. It’s taken this conversation for me to see it clearly. I don’t just want him to lean on—though his strength makes my heart soar.
I want him because he’s the best man I’ve ever known, and I love him.
I just hope I can convince him to trust me after I ran away.
THIRTY-THREE
Worth
Christmas Eve
I’ve been descended on. The brownstone has been taken over.
It’s Efa’s doing, but she’s surrounded by enablers. “Worth, is that the door?” she bellows from the far side of the kitchen.
“Nope.” I shake my head. It’s the first time today I’ve been able to say there aren’t people on my doorstep, trying to get in.
When I woke up this morning, there was not a single pinecone or ornament in my house. Now it feels like the brownstone is a pinecone and ornament superstore. Christmas music starts to play all around us. Did Efa have a sound system installed? At least it’s Frank Sinatra and not Mariah Carey.
“Efa thinks you won’t go for artificial snow,” Eira, Efa’s sister, says expectantly as she holds up a can of spray. “It’s just that I know a guy who owes me a favor. And he can do amazing artwork on the windows over there.” She nods toward the pocket doors that stretch all along the back wall of the first floor. “Let me show you his Instagram.”
I don’t know why she’s asking me, to be honest. I’ve learned with Efa and Eira, it’s just easier to let them do whatever they want.
“Just say yes, mate,” Dax, Eira’s husband, calls from the other side of the kitchen island. “I know she’s not your wife, but believe me when I say you shouldn’t argue.”
Eira blows him a kiss.
I shrug. “As long as it comes off.”