Page 28 of This Kind of Forever
I haven’t paintedin a long time.
Not for myself, anyway. First, it was because I was too focused trying to survive in my university classes, so I let my creative outlet fall to the wayside. After I graduated, I found myself too busy with work.
Now I find myself unsure how to handle a blank canvas. The entire wall is empty, free for the taking, according to Gabe. He put all his faith in me, and I’m trying not to convince myself it was misplaced.
I can do this.
My sketchbook sits on the ground at my feet, full of several renderings of the wall in front of me. I hate all of them.
Maybe I can’t do this.
With a sigh, I set the paintbrush on the rim of the paint can. The wall is primed, but I can’t decide whether I should paint it the same as the others or step outside the box.
The guesthouse door opens behind me, letting in a cool breeze. It feels good against the back of my neck.
“Foster?”
“Hey,” I say, turning to face Gabe.
He’s still dressed in his work clothes, and I have to admit, he looksgood. Too good. I can feel my cheeks turning red as my thoughts travel down that dangerous path.
“It’s looking great in here,” he says, stepping inside and slowly turning, admiring the work I’ve done. Three of the walls have a fresh coat of light pink paint. “I could’ve used you a long time ago.”
I blush harder. “Thank you.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, then mumble a curse when I get paint on myself.
With a laugh, Gabe grabs the rag I’ve been using and takes a step closer. I suck in a sharp breath at his proximity, not even daring to breathe as he leans in. With one hand on my chin, he angles my head to the side and wipes the paint from my skin.
“There.” For some reason, the word sends a shiver down my spine. “That’s better.”
I purposefully take a step back so I don’t lose all brain function from our proximity.
Gabe sets the rag down before he pulls a white envelope from his pocket. “Clara gave me this to give to you. The letter went to Pops’s old place. The Frasers live there now, and they brought it to Dockside this morning,” he explains.
With a furrowed brow, I take the envelope from him. I haven’t lived at that address for a decade now. Some of my mail still went to Pops’s house while I was in school, but I changed everything when he moved to his retirement home.
The penmanship on the front isn’t one I recognize. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to send me something in the mail asking for money after I refused to answer the phone the last few times she’s called, but I know Amanda’s loopy scrawl and this isn’t it.
“Did Clara say anything else about it?” I ask. Like maybe who it’s from.
Gabe shakes his head. “She didn’t.”
With a fortifying breath, I hook my nail under the flap and rip into the envelope.
Hallie,
My name is Kevin Landell. I don’t know if you recognize my name, but in the case that you don’t, I’ll be direct. I had a short relationship with Amanda Foster about 29 years ago. I’m your father.
Before I get into this, I want to say that I understand you owe me nothing. After almost three decades of no contact, I understand if you want that to continue. I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame you if you decide not to finish reading this letter, but on the off chance that you do, I’m going to say what I need to say. What you deserve to hear.
First, I’m sorry. I know that a simple apology is woefully inadequate, but I am truly sorry for missing out on all these years with you. It is my greatest regret, as is not coming to my senses sooner. I recently went through some health issues that made me see my life through a different lens, and I have come to understand just how wrong I have been.
I am far from a perfect man, but I am trying to be better. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but wouldyou talk with me? I want to explain as best I can, and get to know you, if you are willing. I’ll leave that in your hands. And once again, I’m sorry.
My phone number is written at the bottom, in case you ever feel like reaching out.
Sincerely, Kevin
“Hallie?”
