Page 60 of Faking All the Way
Edward tells him where to find everything, and Asher heads out through a side door. The silence he leaves behind feels heavy and a bit awkward. The tension between father and son was obvious even in that brief exchange, years of hurt compressed into a few stilted sentences.
We stand in silence for a moment, and then I follow Edward to the kitchen. It’s small and functional, with worn white cabinets that have seen better days and a little table by the window where he probably eats most of his meals.
He gestures for me to sit. “Let me get us something to drink. Coffee? Tea?”
“Oh, no.Youshould sit,” I say gently, nodding toward his injured leg. “I can do it. Just tell me where everything is.”
He looks like he wants to argue, probably not used to accepting help. But when he lowers himself into the chair with obvious relief, I can tell his leg is bothering him more than he wants to admit.
I move around the kitchen under his guidance, finding mugs and spoons and putting water on to heat. He apologizes for only having instant coffee, his voice carrying a note of embarrassment.
“Don’t worry, that’s perfect,” I assure him, pulling down the jar he indicates. “I’m not picky about coffee. As long as it’s hot and has caffeine, I’m happy.”
I don’t mention that I usually don’t drink it black, not wanting to turn down his hospitality. When the water is ready, I make two mugs and bring them to the table, settling across from him. Through the window, I can see Asher outside in borrowed boots and a coat thrown over his suit jacket, shoveling snow with powerful movements of his arms and shoulders. There’s something about the contrast that gets to me—the expensive, tailored suit paired with everyday winter work, the formal and the practical colliding.
Edward follows my gaze, watching his son work.
“He’s always been like that,” he says softly. “Just does what needs to be done without being asked, without complaining. Even as a kid, he was like that. If something was broken, he’d fix it. If something needed doing, he’d do it.” There’s guilt in his voice, heavy and obvious. “Sometimes I wonder if he became that self-sufficient because he felt like hehadto be. Because I wasn’t there to take care of things.”
My chest hurts as I listen to him. I can’t help being a bit angry at Edward on Asher’s behalf for all those years he wasn’t there, for the hurt he caused. But I also can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. He clearly regrets what happened, regrets the distance between them.
“You guys haven’t talked much?” I ask, even though I already know the answer from what Asher has told me.
“No.” He shakes his head, staring into his coffee. “Not in a long time. Years, really. This is the most I’ve seen him since…” He trails off. “But I’m glad he’s here now. Glad he came to Maplewood, even if he won’t be here long.”
I nod, my own emotions confused and tangled. “Me too.”
We make small talk after that, carefully avoiding anything too personal or heavy. He asks about the party last night, about my grandmother. I tell him about Beverly’s annual gathering, making it sound less dramatic than it was. I don’t mention Daniel or the weird tension or any of it.
At one point, Murphy jumps up onto the windowsill to watch Asher work, pressing his face against the glass. He looks so much like he’s pining, so focused on tracking Asher’s every movement, that I can’t help but laugh.
“He really loves Asher,” I say.
“Yeah, he’s been a bit obsessed from the first time they met. He doesn’t like most people, but Asher…” Edward shakes his head with a small smile. “I guess Murphy’s a good judge of character.”
Asher comes back in after about twenty minutes, his cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion as he shrugs off the borrowed coat. Murphy launches himself from the windowsill immediately, winding around Asher’s legs and purring so loud it fills the small kitchen.
“Looks like I’ve got some competition here,” I say teasingly, watching the cat practically worship at Asher’s feet.
Asher looks at me, and something in his expression makes my pulse skip. “There’s no contest.”
Heat floods my face. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, even though I’m very aware of his dad watching this whole exchange.
Asher crouches down to scratch Murphy under the chin, and the cat practically melts. “The driveway is clear and salted,” he tells his father, straightening up. “The walkway too. You need anything else while I’m here? Any other help with the house?”
“No, I’m fine.” Edward’s voice is careful, like he’s trying not to ask for too much. “But thank you. I really appreciate you coming by.”
“You should take advantage of the help while you’ve got it,” Asher says, and there’s a stiffness to his voice. “While I’m here.”
Something flashes across Edward’s face. Pain, maybe, as if he doesn’t like the reminder that Asher will leave eventually and possibly go back to cutting off contact like before.
“We should probably head out,” Asher continues, already reaching for his coat.
We gather our things and head for the door. Murphy trails behind us like he knows his favorite person is about to disappear, meowing plaintively. Edward stands in the doorway despite the cold, leaning on his crutches as he watches us walk to the car.
I glance back at him, then at Asher’s profile. There’s clearly so much unresolved between them, so much hurt that neither of them seems to know how to bridge.
In the car, as we pull away, I say quietly, “That was good of you. Checking on him, clearing the driveway. I know it’s not easy.”
