by Ashley Drew
With shame riding on the heels of my admission, it only adds to my guilt when I find myself doing the walk of shame in Nick’s shirt. Not that this walk of shame is a suggestion of what didn’t happen. Regardless, it must be equally as wrong—if not more—when the shirt you’re wearing is not your fiancé’s, and you bury your nose in a fistful of it the moment said t-shirt’s owner turns the corner.
I detour through the house to find Dad and Jamie cooking in the kitchen, since it’s Anabel’s day off. The scent of charred meat, caramelized onions, and sweet peppers fills the air, my mouth watering instantly. As I stand around the corner, I listen as each of them chat to the other about his day, the good and the bad, the old and the new, their lighthearted conversation and laughter floating through the kitchen, carrying into the hallways, and filling the house with promise and hope in the same way it surprisingly fills my heart. I almost don’t want to interrupt.
When I finally do, their conversation ceases. With uncertainty in their eyes, they probably assume I’ve come to finish off my tirade from a few night’s prior, and I don’t blame them.
“Jamie, can I talk to my dad for a second?”
Jamie exchanges a curious glance with Dad before turning the heat off the stove. “Actually, I was just about to head into the office to send a couple of work e-mails.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I just need a minute.”
Jamie exits the kitchen, leaving me, my dad, and the fajita fixings to simmer in the sticky silence of the room. After a minute or so, Dad breaks through it.
“So, kiddo, how was—”
Jutting out my hand, palm out, I cut him off mid-sentence. I have to say this before I change my mind. Trust me. I contemplated it about a dozen times on the drive back up here. Stay or go? Go or stay? Back and forth, up and down, bouncing around in my head like a damn pinball machine. “When did you know?”
When the words leave my mouth, I shut my eyes tightly, holding my breath until my lungs ache. It’s the question I’ve never asked, the one I’ve wanted an answer to ever since that night six years ago, and it would either give me the closure I need or completely wreck me.
The kitchen grows quiet, the heaviness of my question muffling the waning sizzles of the hot pans on the stove. I wonder if my dad even understands the question when the silence ensues for a good few minutes.
I start to ask it again. “When did you—”
“I’ve always known,” he interrupts. My eyes fly open, my lungs still holding on to my breath. I stare at him from the other side of the kitchen as he rests his back against the counter, his head low and eyes focused on the tips of his brown leather shoes. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve known.”
I lean over the kitchen island, holding my head in my hands as I mull over his answer. “I don’t…if you…if you always knew, then why did you…” I trail off, knowing the question I want to ask but unsure of how to ask it.
“Marry your mother?”
I pause before looking up at him. “Yes.”
“Because I loved her,” he affirms without the slightest hesitation. His eyes find mine, the certainty instilled in them unwavering. “I still love her. I always will. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known.”
“But were you ever in love with her?”
Pushing himself off the counter, he walks to the opposite side of the kitchen island and leans over it. A heavy sigh escapes his throat before answering, “Yes. At least I thought it was the way a person was supposed to love someone forever.”
Unsure of what to make of his answer, I don’t respond. Instead, my mind is riddled with a thousand questions and can’t seem to settle on one, but I should know better. Even when I was a kid, Dad could always tell when I needed an explanation or guidance, and that, surprisingly, hasn’t changed.
“I know this is difficult to understand, kiddo. Believe me, it took me years to understand it myself. Growing up, I always felt there was something…different about me. When most boys felt attracted to girls,” he began, pausing momentarily to gather himself, “I found myself attracted to boys.”
I’d be lying if I said this conversation wasn’t awkward because it definitely feels strange hearing those words come out of Dad’s mouth.
“All I knew was what was considered normal—boys were supposed to like girls and girls were supposed to like boys, not the other way around. As I got older, I convinced myself that I was attracted to women. The more you tell yourself something, the more you believe it.”
“Why?” I ask, fidgeting with my hands. “Why would you do that knowing you were attracted to…men?”
“The reason most people in my position don’t come out—fear. I feared my parents would love me less, that I’d lose my friends. Even when I felt in my heart something wasn’t right, I was too afraid to act on it. All the while, I never truly felt like myself.”
A pang of regret twists at my heart when I recall my conversation with Nick, and how Dad felt I was ashamed of him. For so long, I let my anger consume me, blinding me from seeing the emotional struggle my dad was going through. To me, he was a liar and a cheater who betrayed my mother and me, when all the while he was simply a man who just wanted to be himself. He couldn’t live the life he wanted, all because he allowed fear to rule him. Because he feared losing the people he loved most in the world.
Fear. I know a thing or two about it.
“Only when I accepted myself did I realize the love I felt for your mother wasn’t the kind of love you give to someone that you vow to spend your life with.”
For some reason, my mind grabs hold of my dad’s words, wrapping itself tightly in them so it never lets them go.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
He shifts his brow, shaking his head as he places his hands on top of mine. “Listen, kiddo. You don’t ever have to be sorry for anything I’ve done. I had a choice, and I chose to be a coward, lying not only to myself but to the people I loved most in this world, your mother included. It killed me—hurting her like I did. Like you, she merely wanted to understand, and when she finally did, she forgave me. It took time, but she did. And I’ll always love her for that.”
I never understood how my mother forgave my dad because I didn’t want to understand. By understanding, it would mean losing the only father I knew and loved my entire life, and I was unwilling to accept that.
The thing is, I was never going to lose him. He has always been here.
“If I could take it all back, Corinne, I would. I would hide who I am if it meant your every happiness, if it meant getting back the last six years. I wouldn’t care if I had to bury that part of me, if it meant I’d have my little girl back.”
As soon as those words leave his mouth, my lungs release my tired breath, finally making room for the relief that I’ve been waiting for all these years.
“I would never ask you to do that,” I admit, my voice trembling as I run my hand through my hair. “The fact is, we can’t go back, and even if we could, I would never ask you to change who you are. But I’m not going to lie to you. I was angry. God, Dad, I was so angry with you, but it was easier to be angry than to understand and forgive you. But I’m done being angry. It’s exhausting, and I just want to move forward. Because I—” My voice breaks off, and a silent beat passes before I complete my thought. “I miss my dad.”
My breath carries the last words out of my lungs, dragging the weight of the last six years along with it, and it feels wonderfully freeing.
Remorse pricks at Dad’s eyes as a single tear falls down his cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you, kiddo,” he laments, squeezing my hands tightly.
I lift one hand from under his and wipe away the lone tear on his cheek with my thumb. “I’m sorry, too,” I say, smiling. “Because you won’t be getting rid of me that easily. I’ve decided to stick around for a few more days. If that’s okay?”
He holds my hand against his cheek as a delighted smile breaks across his face.
For the first time in six years, I know we’re going to be okay.
DATE: Friday, August 10 at 10:01am
FROM: Corinne Bennett
TO: Cooper Reed
SUBJECT: Extended Trip
Babe—
I tried you at the office, your apartment, your mobile...weird I can’t even get you on that because that thing is practically glued to your ear. I would have rather spoken to you about this, but it’s really important that you get my message, hence, the e-mail.
I’ve decided to extend my trip, so I canceled my flight today. I haven’t decided which day I’ll fly back…perhaps sometime next week. I need more time with my dad. I know...impeccable timing, as always, but better late than never, right? This week has been rough, no doubt, but I really have no one else to blame but myself. That’s why I need this, because for the first time, I can finally say I’m ready to forgive, let go, and move on. Plus, it’s been great reconnecting with old friends. I realize how much I miss it here.
I’ll let you know when I decide to return. You’re probably too busy to even notice that I’m not around...JK.
Talk soon.
Xoxo,
Corinne
I hit the send button. An e-mail isn’t the way I want to tell Cooper about my change of plans, but he leaves me no choice, since I haven’t been able to reach him. Funnily enough, when he and I are together, all of New York City can reach him without any problem, and he’s not going to hear the end of it from me.
That is, if he’s ever found. I get it, the man is busy and easily distracted by his work, but would it kill him to take a few minutes out of his day to call and check up on me?
I guess I shouldn’t talk. I haven’t given much thought to his lack of communication over the past few days, mostly because I’ve had a few distractions of my own to even notice.
If Cooper and I had to plead our cases, at least he can use work as a valid argument, citing long hours and deadlines.
As for me? My only argument comes in the form of six feet, brown hair, and the prettiest olive-green eyes I could get lost in for days.
I’m pretty sure Cooper would win.
Did I just get knocked in the head with a nut?
My eyes fall to a single cashew on the floor, now split in two down the middle, lying on the tile at my feet. I touch my forehead just above my right eyebrow where the cashew made impact.
“Oh, come on now, it’s a cashew for cryin’ out loud,” the old, raspy voice yells from the corner of the bar. “For someone built like you, you sure are actin’ like you just got grazed in the head with a bullet.”
I don’t have my watch on me, but I know exactly what time it is—Friday around four-thirty, give or take a quarter hour. Norman Clay never misses a Friday at the pub. Same time. Same drink. Same seat. Every week.
“And let me tell ya, Nicky boy, ain’t nothin’ scarier than comin’ within a few millimeters of death. Got the—”
“Scar,” I interrupt as I turn toward the corner of the bar where he sits, pointing to the raised three-inch scar where his forehead meets his wispy, gray hairline. “You got the scar to prove it. Yes, I know, Norman.” With that, the realization hits me. “Wait, did you throw the cashew at my head?”
With shaky fingertips, Norman slides his almost empty glass in circular motions along the surface of the bar, leaving a trail of condensation rings beneath it. Beside him: a half-eaten bowl of trail mix, cashews included. “Of course I did. How else was I supposed to get your attention?”
Now, if the guy wasn’t pushing eighty and damn near ready to kick the bucket, then I’d probably throw him out, but I just stride toward the corner where he sits, grab the bottle of Glenfiddich, and fill up his glass. “You can’t be throwing things in here, Norman. You know that.”
Norman had once hurled a rocks glass full of Scotch at my bartender, Lucas. It was Lucas’s second day on the job, and not knowing the old man’s drink of choice, he poured Norman the wrong bottle of Scotch. Luckily, Norman’s lack of coordination sent the glass flying right over Lucas’s shoulder, slamming against the glass mirror behind the shelves—glass, ice, and the amber liquid obliterating upon impact.
Any bar owner would’ve banned the customer for such behavior, but Norman’s wife had recently passed, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After he’d apologized profusely, we’d let it go.
Surprisingly, it hadn’t bothered Lucas who’d simply said, “Some people are just that serious about their Scotch.”
“Ya don’t need to remind me, Nicky boy, but maybe if that head of yours wasn’t so far up your ass, you’d see that you’ve got thirsty customers sitting at your bar. You ought to give Andi over there a raise. She knows how to keep a thirsty man happy.” He raises his glass to Andi, who’s shaking up a martini on the opposite end.
“You tell him, Norman! Someone needs to tell this old cheapskate.” Andi winks at him, nodding in my direction as she pours the contents of the shaker into a martini glass. “As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that keeps me coming to work every day are the cute little men like you.” She crosses to Norman’s side of the bar with the drink on a tray in one hand, brushes her index finger across his button nose, and shuffles out of the bar area, dragging Norman’s gaze along with her.
I place the bottle back in its place on the shelf. Dad should be here any minute now, right before the onset of the Friday night rush. Since it’s my weekend to drive up to San Francisco to see Riley, he’ll be looking after the old place until I return Sunday night.
Every other Friday, I anticipate his arrival, breaking out of here the second he walks through the doors, but not tonight. A part of me hopes he doesn’t show up, that he calls to tell me something came up and can’t help me out this weekend. Perhaps he caught a cold or ate some bad fish tacos last night from Cecilia’s. Then, I’d have no choice. I would have to stay.
Chuckling, I shake my head and wipe a heavy hand across my face at the insanity of my thoughts. Man, what kind of sick bastard am I, hoping that illness has caught up to my father? All because it would give me a reason to stay behind.
All because I know Cori is here.
“It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
My head quickly snaps to Norman, whose tired, thoughtful eyes study me.
“I know that look. Confusion. Distress. Hope. Love. I know it when I see it, and I’m tellin’ ya, Nicky boy, I see it written all over your face.”
For a guy who often shows up here wearing two different shoes on his feet or forgets to zip up his fly every time he comes back from the restroom, he sure is observant.
“Whatever it is you’re seeing, Norman, is a result of that second glass I poured you, which I’m now beginning to regret. What do you say we make the next one a water, eh?”
“What I’m seeing is the result of a man pining for a woman.” He hesitates. “And I get the feelin’ it’s not the woman I usually see gallivantin’ around here with ya.”
My body heat rises, even as blasts of cold air blow down through the vent above me. I tug at the collar of my shirt to release some of it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Norman. I love Riley.”
His brows furrow at my declaration. “I never said ya didn’t, Nicky boy. But who are you tryin’ to convince here? Me? Or yourself? Because I never asked you to convince me. I was just makin’ an observation.”
I suddenly grow impatient, turning to pick up the phone behind the bar to dial my dad and find out where the hell he is. I can’t take much more of Norman Clay tonight.
“I was in love with two women once,” Norman admits just as I reach for the handset, and I grow still. “Who knew havin’ to choose between two women could actually be a problem for a man?” A light chuckle rises out of his throat, followed by a dry cough. I turn to face him, my agitation easing up, and now, Norman has my full attention.
“I’m not in love with two women, Norman.” My eyes bore into him.
Shrugging his shoulders, h
e asserts, “I never said ya were, Nicky boy! I only said that I used to be in love with two women. Golly! For someone who says they’re not in love with two women, you’re bein’ awfully defensive, wouldn’t ya say?”
I wonder if Norman was a lawyer in his early life. He seems to know the right tactics in getting answers out of me without having to ask the questions. I don’t say anything. He is on to me, and it terrifies me that what he’s saying might ring true, for the second I face my denial, nothing will ever be the same again.
“What are your two favorite ice cream flavors?”
The question throws me off, because one second we’re talking about love and women, and the next second he’s asking me about ice cream flavors. The guy has completely fucking lost it. “I’m not quite following.”
“What aren’t ya following, Nicky boy? The question is simple. What are your two most favorite ice cream flavors?”
“I guess I would have to say vanilla and strawberry.” Coincidentally.
Norman stares at me inquisitively as he strokes his chin, like he’s analyzing the most detailed answer to the most complicated question. “Now, if only one flavor of ice cream could exist in the world, which one would ya choose?”
“What game are you trying to play here, Norman?”
Gulping down the last swig of his Scotch, he looks at me innocently. “It’s not a game, Nicky boy. I’m askin’ you a simple question. Which flavor can ya not live without?”
He raises his glass to me, indicating that he’s ready for another. Instead, I place an empty glass in front of him, and fill it with ice and water. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Picking up his water glass, he takes a sip, then sets it down. “On the contrary, kid. I’m being realistic. In the end, you’re gonna have to choose a flavor, and deep down you already know which one ya want. Listen to me, Nicky boy, don’t take the easy road, because I hate to tell ya, in the road to love, it’s always complicated, filled with bumps and potholes, dead ends and sharp curves. When ya take the easy road, kid, you often end up where you were never meant to go. Ignore your head and follow your heart because your head will only overanalyze the situation, and you’ll be runnin’ in circles forever. I thank my lucky stars every day for followin’ my heart because Alice Harrington was my everything. And I damn well made sure she knew it. Hell, I damn well made sure everyone in the world knew it.”