Page 35 of Faking All the Way
“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay,” I add quickly, backtracking as fast as I can. “It’s really none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He looks up at me, his blue-gray eyes meeting mine, and something shifts in his expression.
“No, it’s fine.” His voice is a bit gruff, but not angry. “I just don’t tell a lot of people about it. It’s not something I usually share with anyone.” He takes a breath, setting his spoon down. “I kind of put it behind me, or thought I did. But here I am, right back in the middle of it again, so I might as well tell you.”
I sit back in my chair, cradling my coffee mug in both hands as I wait for him to continue, letting the warmth of it seep into my palms.
“I grew up in Wisconsin with my parents. Their only kid. Things seemed good when I was little, like we were a happy family.” He huffs a breath, his jaw working. “Then when I was eight, completely out of nowhere as far as I knew, my parents split up and my dad just left. Not just left my mom, but left both of us. Moved to a different state, barely called, didn’t visit. Basically disappeared from our lives like we never meant anything to him in the first place.”
“Asher…” I start, but he keeps talking like he needs to get it all out now or he never will.
“I used to cry about it at night. Lying in bed in the dark, trying to be quiet so my mom wouldn’t hear. I’d dream about him changing his mind and coming home, about us being a family again.” His voice drops lower, and I have to lean in slightly to hear him. “My mom never liked to talk about him after that. She’d get really upset if I mentioned him, would shut down the conversation immediately. Eventually, she basically forbade me from bringing him up at all. That messed with me too, youknow? I felt like my dad broke everything, broke our whole family, and I couldn’t understand why. What had I done wrong? Why wasn’t I enough to make him stay?”
He’s still staring at his bowl, his hands clenched lightly into fists on either side of it.
“It took me until high school and beyond that to stop hoping for more from him. To stop waiting by the phone on my birthday, stop getting excited when I got a call from an unknown number. To stop hoping for scraps of attention that were never going to come.” His voice turns rougher, more strained. “So I decided to cut him out of my life completely. Let go of that old hope, that stupid kid dream that maybe one day he’d wake up and realize he’d made a mistake. That he’d want to be my dad again.”
“Have you talked to him at all over the years?” I ask softly.
“A little bit. A few short messages here or there. Mostly no contact though.” He finally looks up at me, and there’s so much pain in his eyes that it makes me wince in empathy. “He made some effort to reach out after my mom died a few years ago. Called me a few times, sent some emails about how we should talk, how he wanted to explain things. But I didn’t really reciprocate. It felt like too little, too late. Like he had years to try to fix things, and he only bothered once she was gone.”
I nod, tugging my lower lip between my teeth.
“When I found out about his injury a couple of weeks ago, his broken leg, I decided to come help.” He picks up his spoon again but doesn’t use it, just turns it over in his hand. “I don’t know if he has anyone else, any friends who could help him out. And I don’t get the sense that he really does, from what little I’ve seen of his life here. He seems like he sort of keeps to himself. But it’s so awkward and uncomfortable, being in his house, trying to make conversation. We barely even feel like father and son anymore.”
He pauses, and I can see him struggling with something, some emotion he’s trying to keep contained.
“And even though I want to help, even though I know it’s the right thing to do, it pisses me off sometimes.” The admission comes out with a short, humorless laugh. “Thinking that he wasn’t there for me back when I was eight years old and I needed my dad. When I would have done anything to have him around. And now here I am, dropping everything to help him when he needs something. It feels… I don’t know. Unfair, maybe.”
He finishes talking and blinks slowly, something almost like surprise passing over his face, as if he can’t quite believe he said all of that out loud, that he let so much spill out.
He clears his throat, his expression closing off slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. That’s a lot of heavy shit for breakfast conversation.”
I reach out without thinking, resting my hand on his where it’s gripping his spoon. His hand is big and warm, and I give it a gentle squeeze.
“I asked,” I murmur. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. And I’m glad you told me.” I rub my thumb over his knuckles. “I’m sorry, Asher. That’s a lot to carry around, especially for so many years. And I’m sorry your dad wasn’t there for you when you needed him. You deserved better than that.”
“Thanks.” His voice is a rough burn, and our gazes meet across the table.
For a moment, we just sit there, my hand on his, our eyes locked. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m still basically holding his hand, and that his thumb has moved slightly to brush against the side of mine. It reminds me of last night, that moment by the Christmas tree when I swear we almost kissed. The way his gaze dropped to my lips, something gathering between us that seemed to thicken the air.
I clear my throat and move my hand away, picking up my coffee mug again even though I’m not sure I can drink anything right now with my heart beating this fast.
“I thoughtmyfamily stuff was complicated,” I say, trying to lighten the mood a little. “But you’ve definitely got me beat. My drama is just typical sibling rivalry and parental disappointment. Yours is like… Lifetime movie levels of complicated.”
He lets out a small laugh at that, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Yeah, well. At least it makes for good therapy material, right? If I ever decide to go to therapy, which I probably should.”
“Probably,” I agree with a small smile. An idea occurs to me, and I perk up a little. “You know what I always do when I’ve got to do something I’m not looking forward to?”
“What?”
“I plan to do something fun afterward. That way I’ve got something to look forward to, you know? Makes the hard part easier to get through. Like a reward for surviving.”
He considers that, and a small smile curves his lips. “Like what? What kind of reward are we talking about?”
Ignoring the way my stomach swoops and my mind flashes through a couple of very inappropriate rewards I could offer him, I consider for a moment, tapping my fingers against my mug. “Oh! There’s an ice rink in town, over by the community center. You could go skating after you’re done at your dad’s. Get out on the ice, clear your head.”
His smile widens. “Actually, that does sound like fun. It’s been a while since I skated just for the hell of it, not for training or practice. How about we go at two? After I finish up with my dad?”
