Page 90 of The Goat in the Bedroom
My phone sat on my nightstand, and before I could overthink it, I grabbed it and called the one person who might understand.
“Son?” Dad's voice was rough with sleep but immediately alert in that way parents get when their kids call in the middle of the night. “It's past midnight here. You okay?”
“No,” I admitted, the word cracking. “I'm not okay.”
There was a pause, then the sound of covers ruffling, and him sitting up in bed. “This is about Artemis, isn't it? And your feelings for her?”
I almost dropped the phone. “How did you?—“
“Flynn called earlier. Said you were spiraling.” I heard the click of him turning on the lamp on his bedside table. “Also, Gryff, I have eyes. I've watched you two for six years.”
His voice carried that mix of exasperation and fondness that only parents could manage. “Remember when you brought her to Christmas that first year? You looked at her the way I used to look at your mother.”
“Everyone knows?” It was meant to be a question, but it came out so flatly, I knew it was the truth. My whole body sank back against my headboard. Everyone could see what I'd been trying so hard to hide.
“Everyone except Artemis, apparently.”
My dad was the only person I could say the thing I feared the most out loud to. “Or she knows and doesn't feel the same way.”
Dad made a sound that was part sigh, part laugh, with years of parenting experience behind it. “Son, I've been waiting to have this conversation with you for a very long time.”
“What?” I thought I was about to get the patented 'pull your head out of your ass' talk.
“Gryff, when did you decide your happiness matters less than everyone else's?”
The question hit me like a slap. “It's not like that?—“
“Isn't it?” His voice was gentle but insistent. “You've been putting yourself last since...” He paused, and I could hear him choosing his words carefully, the way he did when he was about to say something that mattered. “Since your mother died.”
The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. “Dad?—“
“I've watched you for seventeen years, son. Seventeen years of you taking care of everyone else.” His voice cracked slightly. “You were six years old, Gryff. Six. Your mother had just died, and instead of letting yourself be a grieving child, you lookedaround at all of us falling apart and decided it was your job to hold us together.”
I remembered it. God, I remembered it so clearly. The funeral, everyone crying, Chris trying to be strong at twelve, baby Jules screaming because she didn't understand where Mama went. And me, standing there, thinkingsomeone has to help them stop crying.
“Someone had to?—“
“No. I had to. I was the adult. I was the father.” His voice was thick with old guilt. “But I was drowning in my own grief, and you... you saw that and appointed yourself the family peacemaker. The one who makes everyone laugh when things get too heavy. The one who smooths over fights. The one who fixes things.”
“That's not—“ But it was. God, it was exactly that.
“Do you remember what you said to me the week after the funeral?” Dad asked quietly.
I didn't want to remember, but the memory was there, clear as day. “I said I'd be good so you wouldn't be sad anymore.”
“You were six years old, and you were promising to be good enough to fix my broken heart.” I could hear tears in his voice now. “And you've been trying to fix everyone's hearts ever since.”
Vincent, who'd been sleeping at the foot of my bed, climbed into my lap and butted his head against my chest, like he could sense the ache there.
“You introduced Chris to Trixie when he was too scared to approach her. You practically threw Flynn at Tempest when he was being an idiot. You helped to orchestrate half the relationships in this family.” Dad's voice got firmer. “But when it comes to your own happiness, you always, always step aside. Like you don't deserve the same love you fight for everyone else to have.”
“I just... I don't want to be selfish.”
“Wanting to be loved isn't selfish, Gryff. It's human.” He took a breath. “Do you know what your mother said to me on your third birthday?”
I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat.
“She said, 'This one's going to love so hard it might break him. We have to make sure he knows he deserves to be loved just as hard in return.'” Dad's voice broke completely. “I failed at that. I let you become the caretaker instead of making sure you knew how to be cared for.”
