Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Nice…” My dad mulls over that word, and then he shakes his head. “He wasn’t that nice. I still loved him, but he was a terrible father. Just…goddamn awful. And it took me years to come to terms with that.”
He leans his neck back, gazing at the hut’s wooden rafters as he says, “Living with someone who tears you down every goddamn day—it’s like living with a constant monster. You start believing his words. That you’re a piece of shit. You’re the problem. Until you just…become him.”
He tilts his head towards me, strength in his amber eyes.
“For the longest time,” he continues, “I thought I was as awful as my father. Some parts of me were. And I believed that those parts would make me an equally terrible dad…it’s why I never wanted kids.”
I didn’t know that.
I rub my lips, hand warm from the water. “What changed?”
“You,” he says. “You weren’t planned. As you know.”
“Yeah.” The media loves toting around that fun fact about the surprise pregnancy and my subsequent birth. It’s not a big deal to me.
My dad stares at the snow-capped mountainside. “When Lily said she was pregnant, I told myself that if I fucked up, I’d ruin everything good and pure in my life. I made a promise to stay sober. To do better. I hung onto something that made me feel like I could.”
I hesitate to ask, “What?”
“I hoped for a girl.”
I bottle something inside. What’s the feeling I feel? I don’t know. I won’t let it rise, but it amasses inside me like a cement block.
“I was afraid to raise a boy,” he explains. “I was afraid to find out decades later that I raised someone just like me.” He lets out a dry laugh. “I don’t know why I thought I’d get what I want. I was such a shitty person back then; I didn’t deserve any kind of shortcuts or easy outs.”
I stare at the water and force myself not to defend his character. I didn’t know my dad in his early twenties, and I need to stop protecting someone who’s gone. My dad isn’t that guy anymore, and he knows it, too.
“Maybe three months after your birth,” he tells me, “I started actually believing I could be a halfway-decent dad. But that fear never really went away. It’s still there. I’ve been terrified that you’d make the same mistakes as me. The same mistakes as my father.”
This is where we diverge.
“You know me,” I refute. “You know I would never—”
“You haven’t lived in my house for four years, Moffy,” he interrupts with quick-paced words. Eyes on mine again. Intensity laces his voice that silences me. “We talk, but you’re not around all the time. I’ve been more concerned with Luna, Xander, and Kinney. And I know who you are. You’re kind and compassionate, and I’m so goddamn proud of the man you’ve become.”
My eyes burn. I know there’s a but coming.
“But I thought somewhere in those four years you could’ve become someone different, and I missed something. People change.” He gestures to me. “You can change.”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel like I can.”
My dad looks like he wants to reach a hand out, but his face twists as he keeps to himself. He shakes his head once. “You’re stubborn like Ryke. He thought that too, but he’s not the same as he was at twenty-two. You have years to grow and be someone different. Someone you like more or less, and it’s terrifying. I know it is. Because at twenty-two, I was shitting myself thinking about it.”
I don’t blink as I take it in.
“I know you’re a lot like my brother. But you’re still my son. You have all the best parts of Lily—thank God for that. But there’s a chance you could have the worst parts of me.”
I open my mouth, but everything I’d say next to appease him would be a lie.
“You know it, too,” he says. “If you didn’t think there was a chance, then you wouldn’t be as careful around alcohol.”
A chill bites my exposed skin, maybe by the weather or his words. I drop my shoulders beneath the hot water, and I listen intently as he keeps going.
“The thing about addiction is that it changes you,” he tells me. “You don’t care about the people you love. All compassion and kindness dissolve in the face of your own wants and needs.”
He extends an arm in the freezing air to point towards where Ryke disappeared. “I was that person lying to my brother. To my family. To your mom, a woman who has half my soul. That’s how bad it gets. And when we confronted you at the summer camp, all I could see was myself.”
My stomach knots.
“I wish I handled it differently,” he says. “In hindsight, I should’ve given you more time to speak, but if I never questioned you, I would’ve hated myself every goddamn day. Because I was raised by a father who didn’t give a shit where I was. And your mom was raised by parents who couldn’t care less about her.”