Chapter 31
Thirty-One
AUGUST CURRENT DAY (SATURDAY)
I open all of the cupboards in my kitchen and groan at how much crap I’ve accumulated over the years. Surely, I don’t need most of this. Then my eyes land on the shelves where I keep my baking dishes and utensils, and I smile—except those. I definitely need those.
Warren and I picked up some moving boxes last night and I’m starting to go through my stuff and sort it into keep, toss, and give away piles while he’s gathering his last items from the hotel and checking out. I won’t officially start in D.C. until September, but Warren cancelled his flight home—Peter gave him permission to work out of this office this week—so he can help me pack and move next weekend.
I frown as I turn and look at my furniture. I’m not sure what he has in his place now, so I don’t know what else we can fit. I considered getting my own place in the beginning, but I know I wouldn’t spend a single night there. It’s more economical this way. I smile to myself and let out an actual chuckle at the thought. That’s obviously just an excuse because really, I’m just excited to be back by his side again.
There’s a knock at my door and my smile grows. Finally—it took him long enough to get back here. I can’t do much else without his help anyways.
“You don’t have to knoc—” I open the door and the words die in my chest. The brightness I just felt fades, because it’s not Warren at the door . . . it’s the last person I ever expected to be here.
He stares at me, shifting his weight from leg to leg. There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin looks so pale, and he’s skinnier than he’s ever been. Skinnier than he should ever be. But at least his hair looks washed and he’s in clean clothes—and he doesn’t reek of bourbon.
“Dad?” My voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath. I didn’t think he knew where I lived. Even though I’d told him I moved, I didn’t think he remembered. He never listened to me.
“Hi, Annie,” he says, his voice croaking, like he hasn’t spoken in years, and my lips start to tremble.
Annie.
He hasn’t called me by his childhood nickname for me since my mom was alive. I’m unsteady—legs weak and a tear drops down my face. I just keep blinking. This isn’t real, is it?
“Can I come in?” he asks, looking down, unable to meet my eyes.
I’m too shocked by the fact that he’s out of his house, let alone here, to question whether it’s a good idea or not. I step aside and let him in. He takes a few steps in then stops awkwardly, like he’s afraid to intrude on my space. His head moves around as he takes in the space and the boxes strewn about.
“Redecorating?” he asks, his cheeks flushing slightly.
“I’m moving,” I say after a moment, and his head whips over to look at me. “I’m going to Washington D.C.”
His eyes turn glassy, and a tear drops down his cheek. He shakes his head as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Analise.”
I close my eyes as I rest my hands on the edge of the counter to try to stop the shaking. This is definitely a dream.
“I’ve done and said some horrible things to you over the past years,” he says, and more tears drop down my cheek. I flinch as I remember the cut on my cheek that’s healed now but could’ve been so much worse. “And that’s only what I can remember. There’s probably so much more I can’t remember. There are so many holes in my memory, so much lost time. So many things I wish I could go back and change.”
I look up at him as silent tears drop down my cheeks. Tears full of anger and resentment. Tears that question how long this version of my dad will last. Tears that want to hope but can’t yet.
He takes a step around the island, to comfort me like my old dad would’ve done, but I move in the opposite direction, keeping us on opposite sides. I’m not ready for that yet.
His body deflates. He looks so tired, so worn down. It’s hard to look at the damage he’s done to himself—and to us—in the broad daylight.
I can’t stand to see the hurt and regret in his eyes—and I feel guilty for thinking he deserves all of it—so I look away.
“I went to an AA meeting last weekend,” he says. “I’m going to another one today.”
I nod, still looking at a half-packed box of decorations across the room. “That’s great.”
The silence that descends over us is heavy and uncomfortable—like a cheap, wool blanket that scratches at your skin. The father-daughter bond we once had was severed, and one apology isn’t going to be enough to fix it.
He clears his throat, and I slowly look over. He wrings his hands together, scratches his neck, and looks everywhere but at me. “So, when do you leave?”
“Next week.”
“Would it—” He swallows and shifts his eyes to meet mine. “Would it be okay if I visited?”
I take a deep breath, looking up to try to stop the burning sensation building behind my eyes again. “Why don’t we see how your meetings go for a bit first?”
He looks down, his face turning red. “Of course.”
I don’t know what else to say. I hope he does stick with it. I hope he gets sober. I hope we get to a point where he does visit. But I’m not expecting anything. I need proof before I’ll open space for him in my life again.
“Well.” He tries to smile but the corner of his mouth twitches between a smile and frown. “I’ll let you get back to it then.”
I nod, and he turns to leave. There’s defeat in the way he’s holding himself as he slinks to the front door. My chest tightens. I was going to just let him leave, but when his hand grabs the handle, the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
“Why—” I take a shaky breath, and he stops. “Why now?”
But what I really mean is: Why not the hundreds of times I tried to help you? I tried so hard, for so long, but it did nothing. He screamed and yelled and cursed at me. And just as I’m about to move away—and started to feel the smallest bit of relief that I won’t be close enough to feel obligated to stop by anymore—that’s when he decides to change.
“I’m not sure if any of this actually happened, or if it was just a hallucination, but last week Warren came to visit me.” He doesn’t turn to look at me, but my eyes immediately go wide.
Last Thursday he was late to work for personal reasons —the day after he found out my dad threw that glass at me. Of course, he went to see my dad. How did I not realize that sooner?
“He was furious with me,” he continues. “He said something about how I hurt you. That I was lucky it wasn’t a more serious injury. He told me that if I ever hurt you again, he wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops and have me locked up.”
Warren must’ve restrained himself a lot—to be there and not lay a single hand on him. To not say he’d kill him if he hurt me again. Because I know for a fact that’s what he wanted to do.
“When he left, I figured one of two things had to be true. Either I actually hurt you and that was real, or I was dying, and it was just a hallucination.” His voice cracks, and tears stream down both of our faces. “And in that moment, I prayed I was dying. Because having to deal with the reality that I might’ve truly done those things to you”—he shakes his head and the next words barely make it to my ears—“was too much to bear.”
I expect him to keep talking, but he goes silent, his body rigid. and after a time, I realize he wants to know. He wants me to tell him if he truly hurt me—if he threw that glass. My stomach turns and I feel sick knowing he could do all these things to me and just simply forget them when the sight of him lifeless on the couch, the anger in his eyes when he yelled at me, and the sting of the cut are engraved in my memory. I’m the one who had to deal with this for five years, yet he gets to forget.
“It actually happened,” I say, my voice shaking and barely more than a whisper, and it sends shockwaves through his body. I hear gasps of him trying to catch his breath, trying to breathe after getting hit by the truth.
“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, and then he opens the door and is gone.
I drop to the floor where I stand, pulling my knees into my chest, and cry.
I don’t know how long I stay like that before the door opens again.
“An—” Warren’s words stop the moment he spots me. “What happened?”
He’s beside me in a moment, arms wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. I release my legs and wrap my arms around his waist. His hand runs through my hair and down my back in soothing strokes.
“You . . . went to . . . see my . . . dad,” I eventually get out as my tears slow and I finally start to catch my breath.
His hand freezes its movement at my words but quickly continues. In a soothing, apologetic voice, he says, “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I?—”
“Thank you,” I whisper and squeeze him tight. His body relaxes with my words.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“He’s trying to get sober,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “I’m trying to keep my expectations low, but it’s the first attempt he’s made since she died. He’s trying; he’s finally trying.”
He lets out a breath of relief and kisses the top of my head. “I’m so glad to hear that. I want your life to be full of nothing but sunshine.”
“You’re still my sun.” I pull back and smile at him.
“And you’re still my summer.” He lifts his hand to my cheek, and I lean into the touch.
“Summer is nothing without her sun,” I say, leaning closer to him.
Just before our lips touch, he says, “It’s me who’s nothing without you , Analise,” then presses his lips against mine. And I feel it this time—in the way he kisses me, in the way he pulls me close, in the way he looks at me—the unwavering promise of forever.