Chapter 13 Henry
Henry
After Piper leaves Blitz Brews, I pull out my phone to send a run update to Silas and Ricky, only to find that Whitney’s been texting.
I think about ignoring her messages, but I’m not a monster.
We’ve been through a lot together, but she’s survived infinitely more as an individual. It’s not in me to ghost her.
It’s been a day.
I feel awful.
6:27 p.m.
My head’s a mess and my heart feels too full. Like it’s going to leak sadness into my chest.
I’d call her melodramatic, but I get what she means. Sometimes it feels impossible to deal with the despondence that’s crashed over me in waves during the last few months. It’s got to be even worse for her.
Henry 6:32 p.m.
I wish there was something I could do.
Whitney 6:34 p.m.
You could have stayed.
Henry 6:36 p.m.
Us being in the same city wouldn’t change what happened.
Whitney 6:39 p.m.
It’d make it easier to deal.
Henry 6:42 p.m.
Whit, I’m sorry.
Whitney 6:44 p.m.
Me too. Can’t wait until you come back.
What I haven’t told her—what I can’t make myself tell her—is that even if I flew back to Spokane tomorrow, I wouldn’t want to be with her.
Whitney 6:45 p.m.
I know it got hard at the end, but it’d be different now. Better.
6:47 p.m.
Don’t you love me anymore?
I’m trying to rally the courage to say no—the hardest truth I’ve ever needed to tell—when my dad slides in across the table from me.
“That took forever—my bad. Ready to eat?”
I nod and send off one more text.
Henry 6:47 p.m.
My dad’s here. Talk later.
“Is that the girl?” Dad asks, nodding toward my phone.
What happened with Whitney had me on my ass for weeks. Of course Mom told Dad. That’s what co-parents are supposed to do, I guess: discuss their kids, trade notes, report challenges. But I wish she hadn’t. It was bad enough rehashing it with her. I can’t do it again with him.
“She’s a girl,” I tell him.
He nods, mouth sinking into a frown. “I’m real sorry about what happened, buddy. Tough stuff.”
“It’s all good now.”
It’s definitely not, but I get the feeling Dad’s as reluctant as I am to walk across the hot coals of my incinerated relationship. Playing it off benefits him as much as me.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, flagging down Clay. “I’m ready for a burger. How ’bout you?”
Shit—I love how he favors easy conversation over emotional outpourings. Sometimes I wish Mom would take one out of his playbook.
I owe him another round of golf.
“Yeah,” I say. “Burgers sound good.”