Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
LIAM
I haven’t been sleeping the greatest.
It’s been two days since the fated tree fort project and three days since I’ve said more than a passing hello to Olive.
The way her face fell with understanding, that simple “Oh,” escaping her lips, has been haunting me. During the day, instead of working on my assigned projects, I’m daydreaming about this new game, inspired by Olive’s propeller hat kid, and when I get stumped on ideas there, I’ve been out in the fields with Manny.
He’s always given me space to work out my frustrations. I don’t have to talk. I can just think.
In the stillness, surrounded by nature, I can let my mind wander. I don’t have to have the answers lined up—I can just muddle through the questions.
Why didn’t I ask Olive out that night all those years ago?
What was the real reason I didn’t warn her about Travis?
Does any of it really matter now when, in a few weeks, I’ll go back to having little to no relationship with her at all?
I’m starting to remember the good things about Pine Creek, things I thought I had successfully pushed from my mind ages ago. But now, I notice the air is clearer. My nerves are calmer. I feel less pressure.
I think about a normal workday in what I thought was my dream job. Caffeine-fueled mornings, long hours of coding, cramped in a cubicle—I very rarely do anything creative anymore.
Troubleshooting, applying digital Band-Aids, and fixing other people’s mistakes are now the norm.
I’m aware of my discontent. It feels like a Velcro undershirt. Part of me thinks that if I can get this new game concept finished and pitch it to Aaron, then maybe, maybe I’ll get the greenlight to do something that excites me again.
Something fun.
But even as the thought enters my mind, I know it’s a long shot.
Aaron hired me so he could acquire Castle Crusade . I couldn’t see it then, but boy do I see it now. It was the game, not me, that was the draw.
Trying to chase that same lightning in a bottle but stuck in a creative black hole of an office, my three follow-up games underperformed.
I’m sitting on the porch at the side of the house, listening to the sounds of morning, drinking coffee, and contemplating all of it. It would probably be good to talk to someone.
I just wish it was easier to turn my thoughts into words.
The door swings open and my dad walks out of the house, Hank padding at his side. Dad’s holding a steaming cup of coffee, wearing the same golden work coat and worn out baseball cap he’s had since I was thirteen.
“You mind?” He nods toward the empty chair next to me.
I shake my head.
He sits in the rocking chair, and the dog flops in a pile at his feet.
I’ve been home over a week now, and I haven’t had a single solo conversation with my dad. I’d thought about finding him after they told me the news about the farm, but I never figured out what to say.
To be fair, he hadn’t sought me out either.
We just don’t have that kind of relationship. We aren’t men who talk.
He’s probably seething with disappointment that I’ve stood firm in my decision, and I brace myself for the guilt trip.
“So,” he says.
I glance over. “So.”
“You and Olive.”
I frown at him, but he’s not looking at me. He takes a slow drink of his steaming coffee and swallows, clearly not in a hurry to explain. “You gonna do something about that?”
“About what?”
He gives me a look, like he knows a secret.
“There’s no ‘me and Olive.’” I’m annoyed at the assumption.
He grunts. It’s a familiar I don’t believe you kind of grunt.
“I don’t live here.” I go back to staring at the trees. Are we really going to talk about girls for the first time in my life? At thirty-one?
“Hey, I’ve been around long enough to recognize a good thing,” he says. “She’s good for you.”
“Can we not talk about this?” The last thing I need is someone putting more thoughts of Olive into my head.
He lifts a hand, surrendering.
“Besides,” I say under my breath, “even if that were true, it doesn’t mean I’m good for her.”
Moody. Sullen. Withdrawn. Yeah, just what every woman wants.
He grunts softly as he shifts in his seat, but I think I can safely consider the topic dropped.
I take another drink, and we sit there, uneasily, for several minutes .
In the silence, I’m wondering where it all went sideways with him.
Unmet expectations and undiscussed assumptions are plentiful.
One would think that a simple conversation would help. Not so easy when you’ve got a non-communicative father sitting next to his non-communicative son.
He clears his throat.
Then, without looking at me, he says, “I owe you an apology.”
The air goes still, and I wonder if I’ve heard him right.
“Time gives you perspective.” He props an ankle on the opposite knee. “And I . . . I got some perspective.”
I turn and look at him.
“I wish I’d handled things differently.”
Yeah, I definitely don’t think I heard him right.
“Mom put you up to this?” I ask.
“No.” He chuckles. “I’ve never been great at—” he pulls a face— “sharing my feelings.”
Now I chuckle. Understatement of the year. “Me neither.”
“But you’re my son, so I need you to hear a few things.” He inhales, like he’s bracing himself. The simple action tells a story—talking doesn’t come any easier to him than it does to me.
“It never occurred to me you wouldn’t want this life. I always assumed I was just a caretaker ’til you were ready. I’d never seen you happier than when you were working with Manny. So dirty and covered in sap your mom wouldn’t let you touch anything. I’m surprised she didn’t install an outdoor shower.” He chuckles.
I smile at the lost memory. It means more having seen it through his eyes.
“You had so many ideas for this place—” he says.
“Ideas you shot down.” The words are a reflex.
He looks at me, lips pursed.
“I’m sorry, Dad, it’s just . . . you did. ”
“I honestly thought we’d get there,.” He looks away. “You know, eventually. You and me. Become partners or something. You could work on expanding and I could keep the day to day going.”
He glances back, and I have to look away.
“I wanted you to learn it all. The business side. The farming side. The staff management side. I thought that when you came home from college, you’d already have life experience to match that degree, and you’d be ready to come on board. We’d phase me out.” He inhales. “I didn’t realize that what I was doing was making you hate this place. I had no idea I was driving you away.”
My shoulders drop. “You never said?—”
“I’m not good at talking,” he says.
I shoot him a knowing look, because it’s a trait I inherited from him.
When I switched my major, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t explain why. I didn’t use it as an opportunity to share how I felt about the farm or about my lack of choices. I didn’t say anything. I just did it. And when my parents found out, I didn’t bother explaining then either. I was proud and frustrated and determined to live my own life.
A more evolved man, a less childish man, would’ve had a conversation. I was young and stupid and rebellious, and I made a lot of mistakes.
“It’s funny, you got the idea for that video game working in the fields,” he says. “I remember the day you came in, talking about it. I think you were fifteen?”
I’d forgotten that. A lot of my creative ideas came to me when I was doing the most mundane things. Trimming trees. Pulling weeds. Fixing fences.
“And then you actually went out and made it. Something I could never do, that’s for sure.” There’s pride in his voice that catches me off guard. “I thought this place made you so happy.” He pauses. “I had no idea it was making you miserable. If I’d realized, I never would’ve—” His voice breaks, and I go still.
My dad isn’t an emotional guy. He doesn’t cry. Ever. And neither do I, which is why the lump in my throat is a surprise.
Now he looks at me. “I’m sorry, son.”
I draw in a deep breath, turning so many thoughts over in my head. As I look at him, I hold back the emotion, and slowly nod. “Thanks.”
He gives me a firm nod and goes back to whatever morning ritual this seems to be for him—sitting on the porch drinking coffee with Hank at his feet, soaking up the peace and quiet.
I take a drink, still trying to make sense of this unexpected turn. Without looking at him, I say, “Wait. Is this your way of trying to change my mind?” I keep the question light, but I have to ask. This is a version of my dad I haven’t seen before. In all my thirty-one years, he’s never once apologized to me—to anyone, if I had to guess—but especially not to me.
He’s not unkind or angry. He’s not bad or mean. He’s a good guy. Hard-working. Loves our mom. But he’s not reachable.
Emotionally unavailable , my last short-lived relationship called me. Something else I inherited from him.
He laughs softly and takes another drink of his coffee. “Did it work?”
I chuckle. “Jury’s still out.”
“Nah, I know you don’t want to stay here. This is my way of telling you I wish I’d asked you what you wanted instead of assuming I knew. I hate to think your memories are tarnished because of me.”
I set my mug down on the arm of my chair and think on this. “They’re not all tarnished.”
“No?” He brightens a bit. “Found some good times out there, did ya?”
I’m liking this conversation—it feels easier, somehow, like we’re on common ground .
“A few.”
“Care to share?”
I shake my head, smiling. “Eh, I’m guessing some of them might get me in trouble.”
He leans back and looks up, “Oh, there wasn’t much that I didn’t hear about. The ramp you built for the ATVs, the rock through the window, the party you threw when we were gone?—”
No way.
“You knew about all that stuff?”
He leans forward, smirking. “Hard to hide the ash of an all-night bonfire.”
I sit back in my chair, stunned. He hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t get in trouble for throwing a party. I glance at him, and he’s wearing the smile of a father who let his kid think he’d gotten away with something he absolutely had not gotten away with.
He chuckles and says, “I did the same thing when I was a kid.”
I’m floored. We’ve just connected more in the last ten minutes than in the last ten years. As I look out at the trees and the land and the sky, my thoughts settle, and I think about the true beauty of this place.
Which makes me think of Olive.
About how she was so shocked to learn that Pine Creek and I had parted ways. About how she insisted she could make me love it here again.
There’s a quiet lull before my dad says, “Do you think you can try and enjoy these last few weeks? I’d love for you to have good feelings about Pine Creek when we close on the sale. Maybe it’d make you less—” he gives me a side-eye— “cranky?”
“Come on. You too?” I shake my head to convey my annoyance.
“You’re kind of unbearable,” he says. “Misery just looking for company, and you’re not going to find it here because you’re surrounded by people who love Christmas.” He laughs. “If Jo cut herself, I’m pretty sure she’d bleed tinsel. And Manny, that guy has more Christmas spirit than anyone I know. Did you know he’s been playing the title role in our Santa’s Village for the last five years?”
Now I laugh. “No, he failed to mention that.”
“That man is a different breed.”
I go still. “What happens to him after you sell?”
Dad sighs. “Depends on the buyer. If we do find someone who wants to keep all this going, I’ll try to get them to keep our staff. It’s their home too.” He leans back in his chair. “There’s a lot to love.”
I wonder if he knows how unlikely it is that anyone Travis brings through here is going to want this place for anything other than the land.
I follow his gaze out across the yard and decide not to bring it up. At the tree line, there’s a giant oak that looks out of place among so many spruces and fir trees. The tire swing is still hanging around its sturdy branches, and I’m filled with some of my oldest—fondest—memories.
Grandpa pushing me on that swing, and it felt way too high—giving the kind of rush to a kid that only comes on the edge of perceived danger. Grandma baking our favorite chocolate chip cookies, me begging to lick the bowl. Mom and Dad, relaxing on the porch while Lacey and I ran around, screaming and playing and laughing—barefoot and sun-kissed and dirty and, by the end of the night, exhausted.
I’d forgotten about all of it.
And now that I’m losing Pine Creek, I think it might be too painful to let myself remember.