Twenty-Three
Noah
“Where the fuckdid I put it?” I grumbled.
I was on my hands and knees, rummaging through the pantry looking for the last bottle of scotch.
“Fuck!” I said when I came up empty.
I crawled out of the pantry, deciding that standing wasn’t the smartest choice.
The place was a wreck, but that wasn’t too surprising.
After all, I had subsisted on pizza and scotch for the last few days.
I had sent Dominic’s cleaning service away every day, and they had thankfully gotten the hint.
I made it to the couch, then looked at the empty bottle tilted off to one side.
“Guess I found it,” I grumbled, pulling myself onto the couch.
I thought rich people were supposed to have everything at their fingertips, so I was pissed at Dominic for not stocking his place better.
Not that I needed more booze.
I’d drank enough in the last couple days to last me years, but when the buzz started to fade—like now—and reality started to set in, retreating to drink was the only choice.
Because I had fucked up the best thing to ever happen to me.
Not on purpose, but that didn’t matter.
The anger—and the heartbreak—in Alex’s expression had haunted me over these days.
And knowing that I had put that expression on her face was the worst of all.
My intentions had been pure, but what the fuck did that matter?
It didn’t.
Not when I found myself here.
Without her.
I closed my eyes, a feeble attempt to get the room to stop spinning.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was dusk.
Some of the pounding in my head had receded, and I risked sitting up.
Was as pleased as I could be in that moment that the room wasn’t spinning.
I pushed myself off the couch, then stumbled up the stairs, again regretting I was out of booze.
Desperate for anything to distract from the searing ache and emptiness that I felt now.
But hiding wasn’t going to change anything.
I had never hidden from anything, and I wouldn’t start now.
So I had fucked up.
I’d get over it and get over her.
I almost tripped at that thought but righted myself and headed to the bedroom.
I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go back into the one Alex had been in, so I went to the room across the hall.
I showered, and as I dressed, I looked on the side table and saw that fucking envelope from Prescott.
It taunted me, a reminder that I’d been too weak to burn the fucking thing.
I grabbed a lighter and then grabbed the letter, determined to do just that.
But stopped.
I’d just said that I didn’t run from things, and I sure as hell wouldn’t run from Prescott fucking Wilder.
No.
I faced what came head-on and wouldn’t let Prescott and whatever bullshit he had to say be any different.
I held the letter as I went back down the stairs but didn’t open it.
Instead, I picked up the trash that littered the living room and washed the dishes I had accumulated, which consisted of two tumblers.
When the kitchen was clean, then the living room, I finally sat on the couch and ripped the letter open.
Noah,
I know you’re reading this.
I don’t know how I do, because I can’t say that I know you.
Truth is, I don’t.
I don’t know anything about you, and that’s my fault.
So maybe you aren’t reading this.
Maybe you burned it.
Maybe you never came back at all.
Maybe I, in my old age and infirmity, have gotten optimistic.
But something tells me you are reading it.
I know your grandmother had a hand in raising you, and though I only met the woman once, a not so pleasant story that I hope she never shared with you, I know she raised you to be brave.
I putthe letter aside and pushed off the couch, pacing as my thoughts swirled.
I thought I knew the story, but reading Prescott’s words, I wondered.
All Nonna had said was that she had met my father once. And when he revealed his true self, she decided there was no need to see him ever again.
She never explained what “revealed his true self” meant.
Just like she had never said a bad word about him.
It would have been so easy. If anybody deserved to have their name trashed, it was Prescott. But Nonna never had.
I always thought it was to spare him, but now, I wondered if it was to spare me.
My fists were clenched tight, and I forced myself to relax my hands, sit on the couch, and then I picked up the letter again and started reading.
If you are reading it, I want to thank you.
I don’t deserve anything from you, least of all your attention, but I do appreciate it.
You’re probably wondering what I want from you.
It’s okay if you are, because what else would you expect?
I abandoned you, didn’t acknowledge you, so why would I do so now?
You’re probably curious about why I reached out to you.
And why I left you in the first place.
To answer the last question first, I left you because I was weak, and I was selfish.
Not a satisfying explanation, is it?
“No shit,”I muttered before I continued reading.
I wish there was a better reason.
Wish that I could say my father threatened to disown me.
That I was afraid I’d be a bad father, so I ran.
It would be nice to put the blame elsewhere, but I can’t.
I left you because I was selfish, and I didn’t care enough to look after you.
And of all the things I regret in my life—and there are many—abandoning you is the biggest.
I failed your brothers, failed countless others, failed myself.
And I failed you.
I’ve kept an eye on you over the last few years, and I see that you have done incredible things.
I haven’t earned the right to say that I’m proud of you for that.
But I know your grandmother would have been.
Your mother too.
That said, I’ll get to the point.
You’re wondering why I wrote you this letter, correct?
I wrote it to say that I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I abandoned you.
I’m sorry that I failed you.
I’m sorry that my weakness and selfishness kept your brothers from getting to know you.
And I’m sorry I’ll never get the chance to know you.
I shouldn’t say that, because who cares about me and what I may have lost?
You certainly don’t.
And you shouldn’t.
Me lying here on my deathbed knowing that no one will miss me when I’m gone is all my doing.
My responsibility.
And I own that.
I’m sorry, Noah.
I’m not asking for your forgiveness or even your understanding.
I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.
Good luck, son.
Please live a happy life, if only to spite me.
Sincerely,
Prescott Wilder
I heldthe letter for a long time after I read it, grappling with what it said.
I hadn’t expected that.
In fact, his words shocked the shit out of me.
I hadn’t been naive. I knew that I was less than an afterthought to Prescott.
To have him acknowledge that truth felt…
In this moment, I wasn’t at all sure what I felt.
The anger that had burned bright enough to fuel me when I was younger had faded to a faint disdain that I knew would always be there.
But Prescott was right in one thing.
I had turned out okay despite his absence.
More than I could say for most.
I pushed off the couch, grabbed the lighter, and headed to the kitchen.
I stared at the letter for a long moment, then struck the lighter and set the edge of the paper on fire.
Dropped it in the sink and watched as it curled into nothing but ashes.
Felt a weight lift off my chest.
I’d held onto the letter, but now that I’d read it, there was no reason to keep it.
It was the past just like Prescott was.
Now, I needed to think about my future.
There was a knock on the door, and I walked toward it, curious as I heard the keypad beep, and after a quick peek at the screen to see who was outside, I opened it.
“You’re dropping by unannounced, Beau?” I said as my brother entered.
He was dressed almost identically to me in a black tank top and basketball shorts.
“Well, I didn’t think I was unannounced. I came to kick your ass in the game we scheduled weeks ago,” he said, tossing the basketball from one hand to the other.
He looked relaxed, carefree, though I knew there was more than met the eye there.
“I forgot,” I said.
“Obviously,” he responded, looking around the place. It looked better than it had an hour ago, but it wasn’t nearly as tidy as I usually kept it.
“So, what happened?” he asked.
As he spoke, he went to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.
I shook my head, my stomach lurching at the thought of more alcohol.
“What makes you think something happened? And go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” I said as he settled on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table.
“You look terrible,” Bo said.
“Thanks,” I responded.
“So? Is this about Alex?” he said.
“What do you know about Alex?” I asked, my temper rising, but the exhaustion that hit me suddenly made it impossible for me to express it.
“Nothing much. But it sounds like there are some things I should know,” he said.
“No, there aren’t,” I responded.
“Look, Noah, I know this is all new to you, but…”
“What’s new to me?”
“Having a brother,” Beau said, like it was the most obvious answer.
I snorted. “Yeah, that is new to me.”
“I know. So, one of the things that you do when you have a brother or two or three, like we do, is you talk to them. They help you out with shit. It’s great,” Beau said.
I shook my head at him.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Because you’ve only had brothers for a couple of years. I’ve had them my entire life. It’s definitely what we do.”
“I never got the sense that you Wilders were particularly close,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say we were either, at least not until the last couple of years. Just about as long as Father has been gone, though I’m sure that’s only a coincidence,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But even still, we were always there for each other when it really mattered. And I get the sense that Alex really matters,” Beau said.
“And what about Dana?” I asked.
It was a deflection, and an obnoxious one.
I shouldn’t try to turn the attention on Beau just to keep it off of me, but still, after that letter from Prescott and what had happened with Alex, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a heart-to-heart.
Beau, to his credit, shook me off. “She’s my best friend,” he said, like that was the end of the story.
It wasn’t, but I would cut him some slack. Besides, I needed to face up to the shit I was trying to hide from.
“I fucked things up with Alex. And we’re done,” I said.
My voice betrayed no emotion, but Beau didn’t buy it.
“So, are you going to get her back?” he asked.
“You’ve met Alex. Does she seem like the type to change her mind?” I asked.
Beau smiled, then finished the last of his beer.
“No, she does not, but you don’t either,” he said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning fight for her. Do whatever it takes.” He shrugged and then passed the bottle from one hand to the other.
He’d said the statement simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And he was right.
My heart had been in the right place, but I’d fucked up when I went behind her back. There was no getting around that.
But I could fix that, and I knew exactly where to start.
I looked at Beau and smiled. My first smile in days. “I hate to cut this touching conversation short, but I need to make a phone call.”
He stood, grinning as he slapped me on the shoulder.
“Good luck.”