Page 144 of Just My Type of wrong guy

“Where do you think you’re going?” Daniele stands in front of me.

“I’m going to talk to A.J. I need to…”

“You’re not doing that.” Beatriz’s voice makes me pause and turn toward her. “A.J. can’t help you.”

“You don’t understand—he knows, and we…”

“Call your dad,” Bia says, almost as an order.

Frozen in front of the girl who lost her father to the most absurd thing we ever experienced—the pandemic—I force myself not to snap back.

“Bia, with all due respect, don’t meddle in this,” I say, my voice shaking, my hands trembling. “A.J. knows what this means, he’ll help me,” I explain in a squeak, tears burning my eyes.

“He won’t. A.J. is the guy who doesn’t talk to his parents for fear they’ll hate him, remember?” Daniele whispers, and my heart races even faster.

“It’s your father you need to call, Alex.” Beatriz steps closer, wiping the tears streaming down my face. “I’d give anything to talk to mine this Christmas, on my birthday… any day. But I can’t. You and A.J. still have that chance.”

“I’ve waited almost two years for that call, Bia.” I wipe another stubborn tear and shrug. “Now it won’t change that much.”

“Judging by how you’re shaking and trying not to fall apart, it changes everything, Alexandra. So stop draggingthis out. Just… call.” She looks at Daniele, who releases the doorknob.

I nod, trying to steady myself, and step outside, determined to go to Guilherme’s room where the boys are sleeping. But I stop halfway, realizing there’s nothing my father can say that will hurt me more than I’ve already hurt, nor any praise that can make me happier than I already am.

I’m no longer the loneliest girl in the city, so I press the call button and go down the stairs, ready to listen—and to speak whatever needs speaking.

“Hi, sweetheart. You got my message?”

“I did,” I say, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “But I confess I wasn’t sure what you wanted with it.”

“There’s nothing I can say to erase the fact that I made you so uncomfortable with your dreams—that you left home so you wouldn’t have to see me every day,” he says, more aware than I expected. “I messed up with you, Alexandra, and I’m deeply sorry.” He pauses, letting out a deep breath, voice trembling. “Over the past months, every time I saw you sing—another piece of the puzzle where you lost everything you had and gained my absence—it showed me how wrong I was. Music is part of your soul, and I tried to tear it from you.” He swallows in a silence so deep his words almost echo.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I rest my elbows on my knees, holding back more crying—not because it still hurts like before, but because his acknowledgment that he tried to rip out part of my soul tightens my chest. Because he did it. And I survived.

I’m not sure if I feel relief, sadness, or a strange kind of peace. But hearing his unqualified apology—no “but,” no excuses—unlocks a door I didn’t even know was still closed.

“I wanted so badly to be angry with you. To say I don’t care anymore, that it doesn’t matter what you think of mymusic…” A humorless laugh escapes me. “But that would be a lie. All this time with the guys has been me gearing up to return to my truth—to my music—and it always circles back to you, even when I don’t want it to. So, thank you for the message. Knowing you don’t hate me anymore, that your love can overcome my singing, makes me happy somehow. It gives me hope I don’t have to be afraid to love music around the one who made me fall in love with it.”

“I never, not for a second, hated you, Alexandra,” he corrects me. “But I know I hurt you, acted like I was the only one who lost your mom, and left you alone. Maybe I’ll never be able to fix these last years. But if you can even consider forgiving me… I know I can be a better father than I was before all of this.”

Forgiveness.

The word we think is a feeling until we actually have to forgive someone, and then we realize it’s a decision. When you forgive, nothing magical happens: wounds don’t instantly heal, the sky doesn’t open and applause, and you don’t get a medal.

It’s just a choice.

But the bitter taste in my throat makes one thing clear: I’m not ready to make that choice yet.

“I’ll think about it, Dad,” I say softly, aware it’s all I can manage without falling apart. “I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You have no idea what this means.”

Maybe I don’t, but I feel so much less bound to his pain now. As the song A.J. and I wrote goes: One day I’ll look back, and the past won’t burn my skin. Today feels like that day. Because I feel unbroken and no longer need my father’s approval or love to be complete.

Deep down, I stillwantthose things but I don’tneedthem anymore. And that’s good. So even if I can’t forgive yet, I can be fair.

“I don’t think things will get sorted out overnight, but I’m glad to talk to you—especially since it’s Christmas.”

“Me too. But I’ll let you sleep, sweetheart. Talk to you tomorrow. I love you.”

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