Chapter 12 #2
He exhales, breath swirling visibly in the cold. “Why are you so determined to turn the real world into a world of rainbows and gumdrops?”
I grin. “The alternative’s too awful to think of.”
“That’s a little dramatic. I’m the alternative.”
I hold his gaze. “Like I said.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes crinkle with a hint of a laugh.
A whim fills me, and I snap a picture of him before he can stop me. But I already know I’m going to look at that picture again and again, studying the set of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the tensing around his eyes. It’s like he’s trying not to enjoy himself.
Does he feel like he’s betraying Evan if he enjoys the journey?
Has his life been so driven by one goal that he doesn’t know how to live without it?
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Wherever Wilson, Kansas can take us,” I say.
“Or were you hoping to watch for the snowplow like a kid watches for Santa? You’d look cute with your nose pressed against the window.
” I flap the bill of his cap. He grabs my hand for a second—the warm pressure spreading from my hand through my body—and then drops it.
“My family didn’t do the Santa thing.”
“Whoa. My dad was incarcerated, and even he did the Santa thing.”
His brows lift, and suddenly my joke doesn’t feel so funny.
“He was already in prison when he found out I didn’t believe in Santa anymore, and I think it broke his heart.
” I frown. “The only thing I wrote on my list to Santa that year was for my dad to come back home. My mom said Santa wouldn’t fix my dad’s mistakes, and I told her that if he wouldn’t, then he was a joke and I didn’t believe in him anymore.
She told me maybe that was for the best.” I drop my gaze.
“I lost my childhood when my dad was sent away, and my mom didn’t even try to help me hold on to it. ”
My throat feels tight. I focus on the crunch of our footsteps, the way the snow squeaks under my shoes. The wind drift the clerk told us about is exactly as wild and unpredictable as she said. Some streets look clear, but then you see a snow drift covering a truck or spilling over a fence.
“Maybe your mom didn’t have a choice,” Oliver says. “Maybe being married to your dad forced her to be the rigid, structured one because he was too busy taking an elementary schooler to restaurants late at night so he could see if he was going to win big or lose it all.”
Oliver’s words stop me.
I stare at the ground, but my head is 1300 miles and twenty years away. The cold seeps through my coat, my wet socks, but I barely feel it.
My brain goes through dozens of memories—the times Dad would take me to school late because it was “Kids Eat Free” day at his favorite breakfast spot; how he’d always let me steer the car in parking lots.
The way he’d let me fall asleep on the couch when I was afraid instead of giving me a pep talk about bravery and sending me back to my room.
I loved him so much.
I refuse to believe he’s what Oliver is saying, especially in the early days. I refuse to rewrite my memories to make my childhood even sadder ...
“Maybe he was more free-spirited, but he was a good dad. He loved me, and he loved my mom.”
Oliver nods. We keep walking until we reach a snow drift that forces us to cross the street, and then we’re walking past an elementary school.
“When did your mom divorce your dad?”
The question makes hackles I didn’t realize I had go up, and I respond in kind. “Why do you keep avoiding your granddad’s calls?”
“Because he’s only calling to criticize me, and I’ve already heard it all. When did your mom divorce your dad?”
“Immediately,” I say, anger foaming in me like baking soda in vinegar. “She didn’t even give him a chance to change.”
“Did he change?”
“Yeah, for the worse,” I say, whirling on him. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m having a conversation.”
“No, you’re dissecting me. Why do you care if my dad was a little permissive or if my mom was unforgiving?” My voice bounces off the snow, too loud.
He watches me for a long second, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I think you’ve made your mom the villain and your dad the saint.”
“He wasn’t a saint! He used me for money!”
“Yeah, but you think prison changed him. What if it just showed who he really was?”
“My dad isn’t the guy who attacked your brother! He didn’t ruin your family’s life. My dad is the one who was ruined by prison, and he’s the reason I’ve dedicated my life to—” I stop myself just in time. Oliver doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t get access to my history.
Maybe what I have with Arrow really is enough.
Because this—what Oliver and I are doing—is way, way too much.
“I’m going to take a walk. I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” I say, and I walk off, not waiting for Oliver’s answer.
He doesn’t call after me. No teasing nickname or muttered comeback. Just silence that makes my chest ache. The wind steals the breath from my lungs as I walk. Behind me, the world is muffled and white, and in front of me, every drift looks like a wall and every street a dead end.
And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to believe my dad built any of them.
Because if he did, nothing on earth could drag me back to Rochester.
Not even Oliver Fletcher.