Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Dane holds a hand up and shakes his head. “I don’t need to talk about Avril.”
“Then what do you need?” I ask him gently. “I’m still your best friend, man. Tell me what you need.”
His lips curl up ever so slightly, but there’s no light in his eyes. “I need to figure this out myself. But I appreciate the offer.”
I nod in acknowledgment and take a step back. “I’m here if you need me. Just call.”
“I will,” he says as his head rolls on the back of his chair and he goes to staring back out the window.
Turning, I head out of his office, but I am bolstered by one thing I saw in there.
Laying on his desk was the envelope Avril had me give him that contained all the information on his father. It was open and the contents were spread out.
CHAPTER 30
Dane
My first Christmas I can remember was with my father. My mom had died in childbirth, and I always wondered what it would be like to have one.
But that first Christmas was nice. I’m not quite sure what my dad did for a living but he came home dirty and sweaty every night, so I know it was some type of manual labor. I stayed with a neighbor in the next-door apartment, and he’d pick me up there. We’d then go to our place, and I’d sit in the bathroom on top of the toilet seat while he took a shower and asked me about my day.
I knew my dad didn’t make a lot of money, but I don’t think I really noticed. That first Christmas I can remember with him, I had a lot of presents. And by a lot, maybe five or six. They weren’t overly big, but I’d never seen five or six toys all for me at once before, so it was awesome.
The thing I remember the most was my dad smiling big with each one I unwrapped.
The next year, I was in a foster home with four other foster kids. The foster mother, whose name I can’t even remember because there have been so many, told us that there was no Santa Claus and, “I can’t afford no presents on what the state pays me to keep you lousy brats.”
I could go on and on about similar stories in the various homes I’d bounced around in, but they’re all the same. By my third year in the foster system, I’d become hard and closed off. I looked at potential adoptive parents with distrust and refused to talk to them, making me virtually unadoptable.
The man I completely blame for that is my father, yet here I stand on his doorstep with my hand poised to knock on the door.
I take a deep breath and give a hard double rap. While I wait for him to answer, I take in the rundown apartment complex he lives in. It’s not in the worst part of town, but it’s close. I saw someone making a drug deal in the parking lot when I pulled in, so I sort of expect to find a strung-out man opening the door.
Instead, when it opens, I see the same man who stood at my apartment door all those years ago. There’s more gray in his hair and a few more lines around his eyes, but he looks fit, healthy, and clear eyed.
“I don’t believe it,” he says in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Dane.”
I can’t think of anything to say. For the million things I’d thought of on the plane or in the rental car to get here, not a single thing comes out.
“Come in,” my dad says, remembering his manners. “Come in.”
He backs away from the door, and I enter the small apartment. It’s a one bedroom. The carpet is threadbare and the walls have holes in them, but it’s clean and orderly. There’s a toolbox on the floor near the green plaid couch, and the TV is on with a news program playing on low volume. It looks like I interrupted his microwaved meal, which sits half eaten on the coffee table.
I turn my gaze back to my dad, and I can see he’s now extremely nervous to have me here. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his work pants and rocks back and forth on his heels. We stare at each other, not knowing what to say.
After another look around the small apartment, I ask, “So… you do home improvements?”
“Yeah,” he says with a hesitant smile. “General handyman stuff. Doesn’t make a ton of money but keeps me fed and a roof over my head.”
That strikes me deep because I know more than anyone that people need more than just food in their bellies and a roof over their head. They need so much more.
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension starting to take root there. This was probably a stupid fucking idea.