Page 78 of Mess With Me

I clench my jaw so tight I’m sure I’m going to break a tooth.

I unclench long enough to speak. “I’ve never blamed you for what happened, Lionel. How could I? You weren’t there. It’s my fault. Not yours.”

“That’s exactly it, isn’t it? I wasn’t there for my baby girl.”

I lower the phone for a moment. This was not where I expected this call to go.

There’s a long stretch of silence where I think both of us try to get our feelings under control.

Finally I say, “Laura never would have married me, Lionel, and you know it.”

Lionel laughs, but there isn’t an ounce of humor in it. He knows I’m right. Laura didn’t want to make our relationship known. Neither of us ever articulated our love for each other. But she never hid it from her father. It was all the proof I needed that she cared.

“I never thought you’d care for another woman again, Griffin. But I’m glad you do. Even if this fucks us both in more ways than you know.”

We’re back to the bad side of things, stepping out of the part where we used to care about each other like a pair of old shoes I don’t think we’re ever going to put back on.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Did you hear that part about you fucking me with this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You always did keep your word, at least,” Lionel says tightly.

Then the call ends.

I pocket my phone, running my hand over my face. This marriage is a mistake, but only on the side of my feelings. Logically, marrying Sasha is the right thing to do. I need to set my feelings aside, that’s all.

“Who’s Laura?” a voice asks.

So fucking much for that.

My dad sits on a bench a few feet away from me.

I didn’t see him come in. It’s not like me not to be aware of my surroundings. That’s what feelings do to me. They make me make mistakes.

I keep my expression neutral. “Hello, Dad.”

Dad looks awkward in his suit. He normally prefers plaid button-downs and khakis, and the suit looks kind of misshapen on him. He’s showing his age these days; his once dark hair all silver now; the lines around his eyes etched deep.

“You know, you’re the second person to ask me about her in the last twenty-four hours,” I say.

He should tell me congratulations. Or at least say hello back. Instead, he says, “You never told me there was someone else.”

My dad and I were never close. I love him, but we’re too dissimilar to be close. He’s all about feelings, where Mom understood logic. She understood feelings, too, but she got me more than Dad ever did.

I sit down beside him, keeping a few feet between us. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t tell anyone about her.”

Dad nods, his hair flopping onto his forehead. He needs a haircut. He stopped taking care of himself after Mom died. At least he isn’t running away like he did at first, spending a whole year overseas trying to pretend Mom wasn’t gone.

“What happened?” he asks.

I consider not answering. But I’ll just be putting off the inevitable. Dad never knows how to drop things we don’t need to discuss.

“She’s someone I was with for a while,” I say. “And I lost her,”

It’s the simplest explanation. A version of the truth.

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