Page 130 of Honeymoon Phase
“Thanks, Dad,” I mumble back, unable to look him in the eyes because I know if I do, I’m going to start a fight with him. I’m going to scream at him for letting me believe that getting married and having a big, traditional wedding was how I’d get the lumberyard handed over to me when all along, he had buyers lined up to take it over.
This is just another betrayal.
He has no faith in me, and he clearly never has. So why thefuck did he suggest I marry someone for something he’s taking away from me anyway?
I’m so fucking sick of losing in life. I’m so fucking sick of the people who are supposed to love me in my life doing nothing but hurt me.
“That blonde girl popped in and gave me a ten-minute warning so...”
I nod and stare at the bouquet of white roses and eucalyptus. It’s modern and unlike anything I’ve ever seen before and under normal circumstances, I would be so excited about it.
These aren’t normal circumstances.
“Let’s head out and see if we can start early,” I say, making my way to the door.
“Hey,” my dad calls out, but I ignore him. “Hey,” he barks more forcefully. “What is your problem? This is your wedding day, and you look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I bark out a dry laugh at the audacity of that statement. But in many ways, I feel like I am going to a funeral. My own. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“This is not how a blushing bride should be on her wedding day,” Dad says, running a finger over his mustache. “If you don’t want to get married, you shouldn’t be walking down that aisle.”
“You’re pushing me down that aisle,” I bite back.
“The hell I am.” His face is the picture of offended.
“You’re right actually,” I reply with a laugh. “This has nothing to do with you anymore because I already know you’re going to do what you want with the yard regardless of whether I get married today or not.”
“So, he told you, then?” my dad huffs back and shakes his head. “That boy’s timing needs some work.” He frowns curiously back at me. “If you already know I’m selling the yard, then why are you going through all this?”
“I’m doing this for Luke’s mom and everyone else sittingout there who worked so hard to make me feel loved and included... and worthy—” My voice cracks as I clutch my belly, trying to control my emotions. “Some of those people haven’t spent months lying to me, so I’m not about to let them down. Let’s please just get on with this.”
“Ads,” my dad barks.
“What?” I snarl back, turning my head to look at the man who raised me.
His eyes swim with pain before he shrugs and say, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I ask, watching him closely.
He works his jaw from side to side and then whispers, “I’m sorry for being scared.”
The words are so simple and childlike, they sound strange coming from my dad. “What are you scared of?”
“Of losing you of course.” He harrumphs and walks around the island to sit down on a barstool. “I’m scared the yard could be too much for you. It was too much for me and that’s why your mom left. I wasn’t around enough. Didn’t help enough. The stress made me stay out drinking too much.” He splays his hand on the counter and stares down at the ground. “I never told a single person this, but your mom called me for a ride home the night of the accident and I didn’t come. I was at the bar with Chuck. I just... ignored her call and then... we lost Aaron.” His voice cracks as his face crumples, his body going slack as he struggles to stay upright in his chair.
I stand stock-still, watching my dad lose it. I’ve never seen him lose it in my whole life. Not even at Aaron’s funeral.
Like a volcano erupting uncontrollably now, he continues, “And then she went to prison, and I just kept at it like an ass. Drinking and driving with you in the car. Jesus Christ, Ads. We donate money to that charity every year, and every year I have to look those people in the eye and know what I did with you even after losing my son.”
My chin wobbles as I watch my dad unload years of guilt and bad decision-making. Things we never talk about, never acknowledge. Just exist knowing they happened.
“I don’t want you running the damn yard because I want better for you,” he croaks, his red eyes fierce on me. “I want you to have a life outside of that dusty old place.”
“Dad.” I move over to stand in front of him, squatting so I can look up into his tortured downturned face. “I still can have a life. And I’ll also never do what you and Mom did either. I refuse to be like that. I’m ridiculously disciplined when it comes to my alcohol intake and my driving decisions afterward.”
“But what if you’re not?” he cries, his large frame slumped toward me. “What if the stress becomes too much?”
“Then I have Luke,” I reply, and gasp when I realize what just came out of my mouth so easily. So freely. So automatically. Like a reflex.
