Page 86 of Best I Never Had

32

Hayden

senior year

“Look at the birdie!”my mom calls as my dad and I face the camera with his rough hand resting on my shoulder. The camera flashes as I hear my dad elongate a high-pitched “cheeese” through his teeth. “Okay, me next,” my mom says, shooing away my dad from my side while shoving her camera in his hand.

Before she turns to face the camera my dad has angled toward us, she peers up at me with her twinkling eyes that continue to repeatedly mist over every time she looks at me in my cap and gown. She lifts her hand to flick the tassel dangling in front of my face. “Oh,” she cries before looking away, wiping the tear off her cheek that slipped away.

“Marsha,” my dad protests. “He’s graduating high school, not moving to Antarctica.”

I chuckle, glancing over at my dad. Whilehe brushes off my mom’s overabundance of emotions, I can see the same mistiness coating his eyes when he takes in my freshly ironed graduation attire.

“I need to get some tissues before all these tears ruin my makeup,” my mom’s teary voice calls as she scurries down the hallway.

My dad lowers the camera, clearing his throat before taking a step toward me and placing a hand on my arm.

“We’re really proud of you, Hayden,” he says, his gruff voice cracking as his mouth presses together in a downturned frown.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, still a little shy from all the attention that I’ve gotten in the last days dwindling down to graduation. I look up at the threshold to our front door where my mom taped a “Congrats Grad” banner and silver mylar balloons, all glittering against the hallway lights. And unexpectedly, my dad takes another step closer and pulls me in for a hug that lasts about four and a half seconds. He pats my back, pulling away before nodding as if silently telling himself his job is done.

It’s moments like this that make me feel guilty for ever feeling any instance of anger or frustration toward my dad. For every time he nudged a little too aggressively to seek out a future he deemed appropriate, there was a moment where his emotions peeked through. Where those moments were wiped away with a pat of encouragement or a more acute focus on other things, like our shared love for fantasy football leagues and my mom’s baked goods. It makes me wish that my future plans mirrored his so that I could enjoy these moments rather than focusing on those times our disagreements left lingering marks of resentment and disappointment.

“Okay,” my mom calls, reentering the room with a wad of tissues held up in her hand. “I have these for emergencies.”

She stops next to me, her eyes landing on my dad as she notices him wiping at his eyes. He tries to hide it, turning away to face the other direction, but then my mom offers him a tissue.

“I’m fine,” he answers, waving hishand at her offer. “I just have something in my eye.”

My mom smirks, rolling her eyes as she tucks herself under my arm, once again ready for our picture.

“One more and then we have to leave,” my dad says, clearing his throat as he raises the camera once again.

present

When I was twelve, my dad gave me a worn copy ofThe Outsiders. It was his favorite book and one that his father passed down to him too. At that young age, I didn’t understand the value of a book. I hated reading. I brought the book with me when I left home for college, finally seeing that reading may be a hobby I could dip into. I still hadn’t read it, but it didn’t feel right leaving it behind. So in between classes, sitting in the courtyard and in the library, I read it. First, to see what the big deal was. And then the second time, while sitting at an outdoor terrace in Place de la Comédie, it was to feel a closer connection with my dad and my grandpa while I was an entire world away. Then, the numerous times after that, I continued to read it because it brought on a sense of comfort. The feeling of being home away from home.

As soon as I walk into my apartment, still dressed in my chef’s uniform, I walk to my room and straight to my dresser. I open the drawer that holdsthe book, shoved into the back, all crumpled and neglected. I haven’t read it in over two years, since the last time I saw my dad. I can’t bring myself to read it now, to open it and look at my grandfather’s name written on the cover page, marking it as his. Ours. So instead, I clutch it against my chest, reminding myself how it felt to be held by my dad when I cried because I scraped my knee as a child. Or listening to his soft words calm me as he taught me to drive. Or hearing his controlled anger lecture me when I came home past curfew.

I will never be welcomed by his embrace again. Never be able to walk through the doors of my childhood home and hear his voice ring through the rooms. Never see him stand by my mom as they wave me off, driving away and reminding me to stay safe on the road. He will never watch me have a family of my own, hold his grandkids, or meet whoever I choose to spend the rest of my life with.

I will never be able to tell him that I’m sorry I was so selfish for the past two years. That I wish I would have put my anger and pride aside so that we could come to some sort of medium. A balanced agreement where we would both be satisfied and continue the relationship we carried as father and son. That’s never going to happen.

A heart attack.

He survived a fall from our roof while putting up Christmas lights, a beer-infused fight in a crowded bar on St. Patrick’s Day years before I was even born, and even a concussion when he was sixteen playing football. But he couldn’t survive this.

The doctors told my mom it was so intense, so massive, that his body gave out before they rolled him on the gurney through the hospital doors.

He’s gone. My entire world withered away into ashes. I just got him back, our stubbornness having pulled us apart. And just as quickly, he’s been taken from me.

33

Natalia

present

When I knockon the door, there’s no answer for a long time. No shuffling of feet, no sound of life from the other side. Until the lock slowly clicks and the knob turns gently, finally allowing me access.

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