31. Isla
Chapter 31
Isla
I hadn’t planned on coming here.
Not when Boston is five hours away from Frosthaven. Not when I promised Asher I’d be there for his program launching event tomorrow.
By the time I pull into the parking lot, dusk has settled over the city, casting long shadows against the pavement. My father is already outside, pacing near the entrance of his apartment complex. He keeps tugging at his collar, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
I almost take a step back, not ready to face the man who walked away from us.
But this was my idea. I have to see it through.
“Surprise?” My voice cracks on the word. My legs feel like jelly, filled with electricity after hours of stress-driving, fueled by nothing but gas station coffee and the kind of emotional breakdown that hollows out your insides.
Daniel Ennis freezes when he sees me. The daughter he abandoned twenty-one years ago, standing before him like a ghost made flesh. He’s aged since I last saw him, gray threads overtaking what used to be dark hair, deep lines carving valleys into a face that seems smaller than the one in my memories. The hazel eyes that match mine widen in disbelief.
“Isla,” he whispers, my name sounding foreign on his tongue. “I didn’t think . . . I never thought I’d see you again.”
He takes an aborted step forward, then stops himself. His fingers curl, then release, like he isn’t sure if he should reach for me or keep his distance. My chest aches.
I’ve spent two decades imagining this confrontation, rehearsing all the bitter, angry things I would say. But now, faced with this diminished version of the man who left us, I feel a confusing tangle of emotions I can’t name.
Five hours ago, I was in Asher’s office at the gym, standing at the edge of something I’d wanted my whole life, but instead of stepping forward, I bolted.
And somehow, I ran straight into the last place I ever wanted to be.
Facing my father.
For twenty-one years, I built a life around not needing his answers, convincing myself his absence was just a footnote in my story, not the whole prologue. It would’ve been easier to keep running. To go home, apologize to Asher, and shove my feelings down for another decade like they’re something I can outlast.
But I’m tired.
Tired of running. Tired of keeping Asher at arm’s length when all I want is to fall—completely, recklessly—into him.
It’s been fifteen years, Isla. Fifteen years of feelings. It doesn’t pass. It will not pass.
I need to know. Why did my father leave? Why did he never look back?
Why wasn’t I enough?
If I can understand that. If I can figure out what made me so easy to leave, then maybe I can fix whatever’s wrong with me. Maybe then, I won’t ruin things.
Maybe then, I’ll have a shot with Asher. At love. At something that doesn’t end with me watching someone I care about walk away.
“We should . . . maybe we should go inside?” My father suggests, gesturing toward his apartment building with an awkward, jerky movement.
I nod, following him up the concrete stairs to a second-floor apartment with peeling paint around the doorframe. The inside feels like the physical manifestation of loneliness.
A few kids’ drawings are still taped to the side of the fridge, edges curled, the paper yellowing. A cracked plastic toy car sits under the radiator. In the corner, there’s a small bookshelf, one shelf half-empty, the rest stacked with outdated schoolwork, and a bent princess tiara tangled in a string of Christmas lights.
The couch is sagging, one cushion missing. The coffee table bears the faint circle of an old juice stain that no one ever cleaned. On the wall, crooked picture frames hang—some empty, others still holding photos of two smiling kids and a woman who clearly once loved him.
It looks like someone left in a hurry. Or didn’t care enough to take the memories with them.
At least they left something behind.
Conner and I? We never even made it onto the wall.
There’s no sign of me here. Just the pieces of a life I never got to be part of.
“Sorry for the mess,” he mumbles, scooping up a pile of mail from the kitchen counter with clumsy urgency, like clearing the papers might somehow erase the years between us. “I tried to clean up after your text, but . . .” His voice trails off, his hand cutting vaguely through the air before dropping to his side.
I scan the apartment, taking in the mismatched furniture, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the thin layer of dust settled on the TV stand. So this is what hours of preparation looks like. Not much. Either he was too rattled to do more, or this is as good as it gets.
I guess I didn’t get my stress-cleaning gene from him. If I had five hours, this place would be spotless. Maybe even have a scented candle burning for extra credit.
“It’s fine.” I lower myself onto the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion, my muscles too tight to sink in. The fabric is rough beneath my palms, worn down from years of use. I cross my arms, my fingers gripping my sleeves. “How have you been?”
Small talk, with the man who missed my graduations, never saw the acceptance letter I once held up like it meant something, and has no idea if I still sleep with the teddy bear he gave me.
For years, I told myself if I ever saw him again, I’d have plenty to say. A whole monologue, probably. Some cutting, dramatic speech that would make him understand exactly what he missed, exactly what he ruined.
But now?
Now, I can’t think of a single thing.
Because how do you sum up twenty-one years of absence? How do you tell someone all the things you wished you could’ve shared with them when they weren’t there to listen?
I sit there, staring at the man who should’ve been my dad, and for the first time in my life, I’ve got nothing.
“I’ve been . . .” He sits in the chair across from me, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Managing, I guess. Working in sales for a manufacturing company. Nothing exciting.”
I nod, the silence stretching between us like an abyss. A clock ticks somewhere in the apartment, marking each second of awkwardness with painful precision.
“You look so much like your mother,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost careful. His hand lifts slightly, as if he might reach across the space between us, then falls back to his lap. “You have her smile. Her hair.”
“Mom’s remarried,” I blurt out, the words sharp and sudden, too much like an accusation. I wince. “Victor. He’s good to her.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, and for a second, I wonder if he even heard me. Then, slowly, he nods.
“I’m glad,” he says, and surprisingly, he seems to mean it. His shoulders slump slightly, some invisible tension releasing. “She deserves that.”
More silence. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. A car alarm goes off somewhere down the street, then stops. Years of unspoken words created a canyon I have no idea how to cross.
“Why are you here, Isla?” he asks gently.
The question breaks something loose inside me. “I’ve spent my whole life wondering why you left.” My hands curl into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms. “Why did you never come back? Never even called. Never sent either of us a birthday card.” My voice cracks. “Were we that forgettable? Was there something wrong with me that made it so easy to pretend I didn’t exist?”
His face crumples like I’ve physically struck him. He recoils, shoulders hunching, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. When he opens them again, his eyes are a little red, like he’s been holding too much in for too long.
“No, Isla. No. There was nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why?” The question comes out small, like they’re from the child I was when he walked away.
He sinks deeper into his chair, staring at his hands—hands I vaguely remember teaching me to tie my shoes. They looked bigger, stronger then. Now they tremble slightly as he spreads his fingers, then curls them into loose fists.
“I need to start from the beginning,” he says. “If that’s okay.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Did your mother ever tell you about my father? Your grandfather?”
I shake my head. “Mom never talked about your family.”
“My father walked out when I was twelve. Just disappeared after a fight with my mom.” He gives a bitter laugh. His foot taps against the floor. “He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. And that was it. No warning. No note. He just vanished.”
I frown, something unsettled curling in my chest. “I didn’t know that.”
“My mother worked three jobs to keep us afloat. I watched her exhaust herself trying to be both parents.” His gaze turns distant. “I hated my father, but . . .” His fingers curl into his palms, knuckles whitening. “I was so scared I’d turn out like him. We shared the same blood. So I never let myself get that close. Never wanted a relationship.”
He rubs his face, a shaky exhale escapes him.
“I met your mother at a volunteer program she was part of. Some outreach thing her university did at the community center where I worked.” His expression softens, the hard lines around his mouth easing. “She was everything I wasn’t. Smart, confident, from a family where money and education were a given. I don’t know what she saw in me, but for some reason, she kept coming back.”
“Mom loved you.” I shift on the couch, uncrossing and recrossing my ankles.
“She did. And I loved her too, more than I knew how to handle.” He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Her parents hated me. Made it very clear I wasn’t good enough for their daughter. But Christina didn’t care. She defied them to be with me. Even eloped when they threatened to cut her off financially if she married me.”
I’d never heard this part of their story. Mom had always been vague about her parents, saying only that they’d drifted apart over “differences in values.”
“We opened a small family restaurant right after you and Conner were born. Nothing fancy—just good food, good people. Those first few years were good, Isla. Really good. But as the business grew, your mother just shone. She knew exactly how to make customers feel like family, how to turn a simple meal into a memory.”
“That doesn’t explain why you left,” I say, a hard edge entering my voice.
“No, it doesn’t.” He sighs deeply. His gaze drifts to the window, where city lights flicker against the growing darkness. “The truth is, I never felt that I deserved her. Every day, I waited for her to wake up and realize she’d made a mistake marrying me. That I wasn’t worth what she’d given up.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach. This isn’t the villain origin story I was expecting.
“The more successful we became, the more I felt like a fraud. I couldn’t stop thinking that she could’ve done even more if she hadn’t given everything up for me. Just like how her father saw me.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like he’s choking on the weight of his own confession. “I was just waiting for everyone to figure out I didn’t belong there.”
He stands abruptly, pacing to the window. His reflection is ghostly in the glass. “I didn’t realize back then that it was my own demons talking. I only knew one thing—I didn’t deserve any of it.”
My throat tightens. “So you cheated on her?”
He flinches, guilt flickering across his face before he looks away. “I couldn’t face it, all of it. The fear, the way I kept coming up short. And I didn’t know how to tell your mom that. So instead of dealing with it, I avoided it.”
He braces one hand against the window frame. “I let myself get too close to someone else. I let her become my escape, the place I went to forget how much of a failure I felt.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “It didn’t go that far. But it was still a betrayal.”
“When your mother caught me,” he continues, voice quieter now, “she gave me a chance to fix things. But I didn’t take it. Leaving felt easier than waiting for the day she finally realized I didn’t deserve her.”
He turns back to face me. “For years, she asked me to at least come see you and Conner. Just once. But I refused. Told myself you’d all be better off without me.”
“We weren’t,” I whisper.
He nods slowly, staring at his hands like they hold all the years he lost. “I know that now.” His voice cracks, raw and stripped bare. He crosses back to his chair.
“I was too ashamed to face any of you. I couldn’t forgive myself, but I also couldn’t make myself feel worthy enough to look at you.”
I swallow past the knot in my throat. “What about after?” I press. “You remarried. Had two children. So why are you still here? Still alone?”
A humorless laugh escapes him, his head tilting back against the chair. “Because I was trying to outrun my guilt. Start over like none of it ever happened.” He scrubs a hand over his face, his exhaustion almost physical. “But it doesn’t work. You don’t get to start over when you’re still carrying all the same broken parts of yourself.”
His jaw clenches. “As soon as things got real, when things were good , I felt it creeping in again. That voice in my head is telling me I didn’t deserve it. That it was only a matter of time before they figured out who I really was.”
His fingers flex, then curl into fists. “So I checked out. Told them I didn’t love them anymore. And eventually, we divorced.”
I stare at him, really seeing him for the first time.
Deep lines carve shadows into his face, his skin sallow under the dim overhead light. His eyes are dull, hollow, like he’s been fighting a battle so long he forgot what winning even looks like.
This isn’t the monster from my childhood memories.
This is just a sad, broken man who’s been his own worst enemy.
Maybe it’s because he’s still my dad. Maybe it’s because his loneliness is so stark, so undeniable. But something in me aches—for the life he’s wasted, for the years lost, for the way pain has settled into him like an old companion. Even after everything, it still hurts to see him like this.
“It wasn’t until the second divorce that I finally went to therapy,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s when I realized I built a life where nobody could reach me. Never let myself love fully. Never let myself live fully. And now I’ve got this hollowed-out version of everything. Perfectly safe. Perfectly empty.”
Something sharp lodges in my chest. I reach for the glass of water on the coffee table, needing something to do with my hands. The cool surface grounds me as my thoughts race.
Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing with Asher?
I’m not ready for this. Not for this broken-down version of the man who used to lift me onto his shoulders. Instead, I’m staring at a mirror, a version of myself twenty years down the road if I keep running.
What if I end up like this?
My breath catches, and I set the glass down too quickly, water sloshing over the rim.
Do I want to someday sit in an empty apartment, telling someone about all the regrets I carry? Do I want to look back and wish I’d been brave enough to reach for what I wanted? Do I want to spend my days watching life pass by, never discovering where my story with Asher might lead?
No.
I’d rather someday say I tried. That I was brave enough to face my fears head-on instead of letting them drive. I’m afraid of getting hurt—of course I am. But what terrifies me more is never loving fully. Even if things with Asher don’t end the way I hope, at least I’ll be able to say I was brave enough to find out.
That I learned. That I grew. That I lived.
I was wrong all this time. The unbearable pain isn’t risking love and losing it. It’s never loving wholeheartedly at all. And being afraid of losing Asher is not worth never having him at all.
I blink rapidly, fighting back tears. The revelation washes over me like a wave.
“I’ve started trying to make things right with them. My other kids. Their mom. It’s slow, and it’s messy, but I’m trying.” He exhales, slow and heavy. “And now, I’m reaching out to you and Conner. Because I want to do better. Be better. I just . . . hope it’s not too late.”
“I came here to understand why I wasn’t enough,” I say slowly. “But that was never the question I should have been asking, was it?”
“No,” he says softly. “The question isn’t why people leave. It’s why they’re too afraid to stay.” He leans forward, his eyes red-rimmed but intent. “But I want you to understand something—none of it, not one moment, was because you weren’t enough.”
He stands, walks across the room, and crouches beside an old cabinet tucked into the corner. After a moment of rummaging, he pulls out a small photo box, the lid slightly warped, like it’s been opened and closed a hundred times.
He sets it carefully on the coffee table, lifting the lid.
Inside the box, there are letters. A dozen, at least. Some with Lisa Frank stickers curling at the corners. Some are crayon-colored. Some in shaky, determined handwriting I barely recognize as my own.
“I kept every single one.” He lifts one letter carefully. “Every letter you ever sent me. I didn’t have the courage to write back.”
Something catches in my chest and won’t let go.
He looks at me then, voice raw. “The failure was mine, not yours. I’m sorry, Isla. To you. To your mom. To Conner.”
My throat tightens, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak. “You should tell them that yourself.” I tuck my feet underneath me, shifting on the couch.
He nods slowly. “I will.” A pause, then a small, tentative breath. “And . . . thank you. For coming here. For being willing to see me at all.” His voice is rough with something I can’t quite name. “I don’t know what the future looks like, but I hope this isn’t the last time we see each other. I’m still working on myself. I want to be better. And I hope someday, I get the chance to prove that to you.”
“I should go,” I say, standing suddenly. “It has been a long day.”
He nods, rising too. “I understand. Thank you for coming. For giving me the chance to tell you how sorry I am.”
At the door, I pause. “His name is Asher,” I say quietly. “The person I’m running from. The reason I ended up here today.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “I’ve spent years convincing myself it wouldn’t last, that it was safer not to try. And I’ve hated you for so long—for what you put us through, for what you took from us. But . . . thank you. For telling me the truth. I’m going to make a different choice.”
His mouth pulls into a small smile. “I’m sure he’s a good man.”
Asher’s not just a good man. He’s the one.
And now the only question is if I can get back to him in time and if he’ll still want me after I’ve pushed him away one too many times.
CONNER
Where are you?
ISLA
I just drove to meet Dad.
CONNER
Wait. You mean Boston? Isla, are you serious?
Are you even going to make it back in time for tomorrow?
ISLA
Yeah. I’ll tell you everything later.
Staying the night here, leaving early in the morning. I’ll be there.