Chapter 8 Quinn
Afew hours later, despite his best efforts to stay awake beyond his usual bedtime, Angus’s head started to bob during our millionth rewatch of How to Train Your Dragon.
Much like me as a kid, when Angus was out, he was out, so I shook him awake long enough to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas.
He was already snoring by the time I drew his duvet over him.
I shut his bedroom door and exhaled, trying to shake the unfamiliar anxiety riding me.
Not once in Heather’s almost eighteen years on the planet had I ever felt nervous about approaching my daughter.
But I hadn’t been able to get Cammie’s words out of my head.
My sister was as loyal as they came, and she stood up for the people she loved …
but she didn’t pull her punches with the people she loved either.
Had I closed myself off from my kids?
Seriously?
Cammie would never say anything so brutal without believing it was true.
There was also the small matter of my relationship with my children’s mother.
Kiera had asked for a divorce three years after Angus was born, and her reasons were the same ones we’d fought about through much of our marriage.
She said I was emotionally unavailable, and I didn’t know how to be anybody but myself, so I let her go.
Kiera met her second husband Gary when Angus was six and then they’d moved off the island to Oban two years ago.
The only painful part of that was my kids being gone.
I felt nothing but happy for Kiera that she’d found someone, and that made me realize I’d never really given her a chance.
There was only one woman I truly loved, and I hadn’t been able to let her go.
Kiera knew that. It had hurt her for a long time, which I fucking hated.
But in all that tangle of emotions, had I started shutting everyone out?
I wasn’t afraid of feelings.
I mean, I felt like I was the one bloke in the pipe band always holding a mirror up to their faces when they were fucking around or being emotionally constipated.
Is that why I couldn’t see it in myself?
Fuck. Had I really been that lacking in self-awareness?
The idea that I was the reason Heather was so distant and angry … I couldn’t stand it. My son and daughter were my whole world.
Bracing myself, I took the stairs down to the ground floor. Heather’s bedroom was the only room on this level. She’d wanted it that way for privacy. I found myself outside my daughter’s door.
I knocked. “Heather?”
There was a heavy sigh on the other side and then footsteps. The door cracked open and Heather’s face appeared. She’d scrubbed off her makeup, and I felt a pang in my chest because bare faced, she looked more like my wee girl. “What?”
Ignoring her snippiness, I kept my tone soft. “Can we talk? Please.”
Up until the divorce, I’d been my daughter’s hero. There was nothing like that feeling, knowing that in her eyes, I could fix all her hurts and aches. That I protected her. I was her rock.
Failing Heather had been the second-hardest moment of my life.
Even harder was watching her try to blame her mum about the end of our marriage and then having to explain to a twelve-year-old that no one was to blame for the destruction of her family.
That the writing had been on the wall from the very beginning.
She’d veered between hating us both for a while.
Eventually, we found our way back to each other.
However, the move to Oban had reignited Heather’s resentment and, unfortunately, I’d borne the brunt of it.
I felt helpless, watching her pull further away from me.
But was I to blame for that too?
I had a rising panic within me that if I didn’t try to fix things between us before she left for university, this would be our relationship—this strained, unfamiliar thing that fucking hurt.
Whatever my daughter saw on my face, it made her frown. Her shoulders slumped and she stepped back, pushing her bedroom door open to let me in.
Even her bedroom at my place seemed to be an act of protest. Heather was going to Glasgow to study architecture. She’d always been creative, and I’d spent many years redecorating her bedroom to reflect her likes and personality. Her room at her mum’s was styled in what she called Hygge.
Her room here was blank. Her duvet set was a generic one I’d bought because she’d told me to buy anything. There was no personality in the room. She treated it like a temporary base, making her point, taking her hits, and unbeknownst to her, hitting right on target.
“Can I sit?” I gestured to her bed. She had her e-reader out, so I’d obviously interrupted her nightly reading.
“I’m at a really good bit in my book,” Heather impatiently confirmed my thoughts.
“It won’t take long.”
“Fine.” She sat down on the stool at her dressing table. It was the only thing that even looked remotely like it belonged to her—all her makeup and perfumes scattered across it. “Is this a lecture about something?”
“No. No, it’s not.” I sat down and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “I just … I want you to know that I’m here. If there’s something bothering you, I am here. You can talk to me.”
She lowered her lashes. “I’m fine.”
Definitely not fine. “Is it about uni? You know as excited as you are for it, you’re allowed to be nervous too. It’s a big thing moving away from home.”
Her gaze flashed upward with anger. “Well, I’ve done that a few times now, so I’m fine with that.”
I hated to bring it up because I didn’t believe in rehashing past actions for the sake of holding on to resentment.
I was a believer in moving forward and working on a solution to our problems. But I needed to figure out why Heather had reverted to being so angry at me again. “Is this about your mum and me?”
Her chin jerked, like she was surprised. “Nah.”
“Are you sure?”
She crossed her arms defensively. “Look, I’m well over it. Mum is happy with Gary. Gary is nice. End of.”
“But you’re mad at me.”
“I’m pissed off because I’m here instead of in Paris.”
My philosophy with my kids was always to hold back my feelings because I believed I was supposed to be strong, unchanging, and not let my emotions breed fear or insecurity in them.
But Heather was almost eighteen, and maybe I needed to start treating her like the adult I kept telling her she was.
“It hurts my feelings when you keep saying you don’t want to be here. ”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Dad …”
“I’m not trying to guilt you, kid. I just …
I think I’ve allowed you to believe I’m some kind of robot who doesn’t have feelings.
And that’s my fault. I wanted you to always feel safe and secure with me because there were times I didn’t feel that way when I was a kid.
However, by doing that, I’ve let you think I’m impervious. But when you take your hits, it hurts.”
Heather’s chin wobbled, her eyes brightening. “Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Everything in me rebelled at having blurted that out, seeing her upset at my reaction, because that’s what I’d tried to protect her from over the years.
I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing or not.
“Have I hurt your feelings, flower? Is that why you don’t want to be here?
Because I want to know if I’ve done something. ”
She quickly brushed away a tear, and I had to hold myself back from getting up off the bed.
“I … I’m not mad at you. I mean … I think you and Mum have, like, lied about why you split up and that’s kind of fuc—messed with me.
But I’m not mad at you, Dad.” Her tears started to fall fast and hard now as she nervously twisted her fingers together.
My worry began to mount.
“I’m … scared that if I tell you the truth, you’ll feel weird toward me. Or different about me.”
Pulse racing, I got up and lowered myself to my knees in front of her, taking her hands gently in mine.
“I could never feel weird or different toward you, kid. You are”—I swallowed because Cammie was right …
voicing my own emotions did not come easily to me—“you are my world. You have been since the moment the midwife placed you in my arms. You’ll never lose me. ”
Heather cried harder. “I just … you’re just … like I know Glenvulin isn’t backward or anything, but you just come from such a traditional background, and I’ve heard Grandpa Donnelly make offhand comments about Harry and Bryan …”
My mind raced as my pulse increased with mounting concern. “Heather, what are you trying to tell me?”
She pulled one hand out of mine but only to wipe it beneath her runny nose.
Finally, she sucked in a breath and met my gaze head on.
“Dad … I’m not mad because I didn’t get to go to Paris.
I’m mad because my girlfriend, Hazel, is in Paris alone with our friend, Olivia, and Olivia told Hazel she has feelings for her.
And Olivia and Hazel are going to Edinburgh uni together …
and I’m in love with Hazel and I’m scared I’ll lose her. ”
My grip on her tightened even as my jaw slackened without my permission.
That was not at all what I’d been expecting.
Heather was gay.
She was telling me she was gay.
Wait.
She was afraid to tell me she was gay?
“Flower … I don’t care who you love. I just care that you’re happy. That’s all that will ever matter to me.”
A sob tore from her throat, like a wounded animal, and then suddenly I was almost knocked on my arse as she threw her arms around me.
I embraced her, tight, as she cried into my throat, and years of hugs and skinned knees and making her feel safe and protected when she was hurt flooded through my mind.
These moments with my daughter were rare now. Gone in a flash. I stroked her hair, murmuring soothing words, until she calmed down. Finally, she pulled away, sitting back on her heels as she wiped at her eyes and cheeks.