Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Iwas careful not to allow myself to be separated from the group.
That was our plan, even when I called my father to ask for his help and his response was that he was coming to Savannah.
That was it. He didn’t say anything else.
He just asked where the campground was and said he would be there as soon as he could.
When he actually arrived the following day, I was in the hammocks with Brody.
The women were over at the table trying to pretend they weren’t spying on the other authors.
Our last reader weekend started the following day, which meant that whatever plan Preston planned to launch would be happening soon.
Thinking about it made me antsy. When my father showed up—in simple khakis and a polo shirt instead of his normal suit—my anxiety rocketed up a notch.
“You came.” It was all I could think to say.
He gave me an impatient look. “I said I would.”
“I know but…” I looked over at Brody, who was clearly uncomfortable.
We’d been talking what would happen when the retreat was over, how I planned to see Bella even though we would no longer be sharing a roof.
I liked talking about those things. The appearance of my father threw all of that into turmoil.
Remembering my manners, I hopped to my feet and extended my hand. “Dad.”
Rather than give me the stiff return I was expecting, my father arched an eyebrow. “Son.”
He shook my hand then sighed. I couldn’t decide whether the sigh was full of disappointment or another emotion I couldn’t put a name to.
“This is Brody.” I gestured toward my best friend. “He’s an author too.”
Brody wasn’t known for being coordinated. He tried to gracefully slide out of the hammock, but his foot got stuck in the netting, and he tripped. I lunged forward but missed catching him and ended up on my knees as Brody hit the ground.
I cast a worried look toward my father—slapstick was not his preferred genre—and found he was grinning ear to ear. I was taken aback. “Um…” I risked a glance at Brody.
Dad chuckled. “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one feeling awkward this morning. I wish it wasn’t this way but… well.” He exhaled heavily. “You have a problem, and I want to talk to you. It seems we can handle both things now.”
He was calm without being stiff for a change. “I do need help.” When he extended his hand to me, I took it and let him pull me to my feet. Then I did the same for Brody.
My friend brushed off his hands before reaching out for a shake. “I’m sorry,” Brody said. “I would say I’m not usually such a mess, but that’s not true. I’m kind of clumsy.”
“There are worse things to be,” Dad assured him. “It’s okay, son. Not everything in life needs to be serious. That’s a lesson I wish I would have learned a long time ago.”
I tried to think of a single instance growing up when my father wasn’t serious. I came up empty.
Dad’s eyes switched to me. “We need to talk,” he stressed, as if reading my mind.
I nodded and pointed toward the cabins. “Let’s go this way. We can talk freely in my cabin.”
“Okay.” Dad started in that direction then shifted to look over to the table where Bella, Bree, and Hayley were sitting. They weren’t even trying to hide that they were staring. “Which one is she?”
I’d given my father a barebones recital of information on the phone, including that I was currently head over heels for a woman.
I figured he’d scoff at the notion of helping or mock me for putting a woman first. He’d just said he would come, and that was it, though.
It was not the reaction I’d been expecting.
This man studying the women in my life was not the father I was expecting either.
“The little one with the auburn hair,” I replied.
Dad studied Bella. “She’s kind of pocket-sized, huh?”
“She’s tiny,” I agreed. “She has a big personality, though. She—” I didn’t realize I was going to say the next part out loud until it was almost out. Then I hesitated.
“She what?” Dad prodded.
“She reminds me of Mom,” I admitted finally. “Not with her looks but the way she carries herself. She had the best laugh and smile.”
Dad didn’t immediately say anything, and when I finally found the courage to look at him, he wasn’t rolling his eyes but smiling.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Dad said. “We need to get this conversation out of the way first.”
He was pretty intense about this, so I nodded. “Okay. Let’s go to the cabin.”
Once inside, Dad looked around, and again, I couldn’t read his reaction. “You’ve been living here for a month?” he asked finally.
“More or less,” I confirmed. “It’s a retreat. We can go home during the week, but we’ve been having fun and getting a lot of work done.”
“Plus your girl is here.” It wasn’t a question. “Are you guys staying in this cabin together?”
“We are. I… we… it’s a long story.” How was I supposed to explain to him I’d embarked on a fake relationship with Bella that had turned real? It was a romance book trope—I was living and breathing a romance book—and I didn’t even care how corny it was. My father wouldn’t find that funny.
“I want to hear it all,” Dad said. “First, I need to talk to you about my stuff.” He straightened his shoulders. “A year ago, I was diagnosed with early-stage prostate cancer.”
I felt as if the floor was about to fall away and tumble me into an abyss. “What?” I sat in one of the chairs heavily. “I… you… are you okay?” The man always flustered me. It was just the way of the world. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, though.
“It was treatable and, as of right now, I’m fine,” he replied. “I went through some chemo and a surgery, but I’m okay. I didn’t come here to make you feel bad about that.”
I jerked up my chin, anger taking over. “Why would I feel bad about you not telling me you had cancer?”
Dad seemed to consider it. “Perhaps that came out wrong.” He looked annoyed at himself as he sat on the couch. “I need to start over.”
“You need to start over?” He was off-the-wall nutty today.
“Well, maybe not over. My therapist gave me talking points to get through this, but I’m already off the rails.”
Those were words I’d never expected to hear from him. “Your therapist? Since when do you have a therapist?” I was going to spiral soon. I recognized the signs.
“Getting diagnosed changed my perspective on a great many things,” Dad explained. “I realized I had nothing to show for my life but work. That’s all my obituary would say. He worked hard.”
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question but his shaking head stopped me.
“I am not dying,” he supplied. “At least not right now. I’m in full remission and I get regular scans. I’m fine.”
“But you went to see a therapist anyway?”
“Yes. I became very morbid for a few months. I was convinced I was going to die, and I needed somebody to talk to. Eric Pierson—he works with me—went through something similar after having a heart attack. He pointed me toward Shelby Withers. She’s my therapist.”
“And she told you what?” I asked, honestly confused.
“She told me that it wasn’t too late to get my life in order. She even called me on my shit. Do you know what an askhole is?”
The question was so jarring it took me several seconds to respond. “Yes. It’s somebody who asks a lot of questions but already has answers in their head and they refuse to stray from their preconceived notions. We have them in the author world too.”
Dad nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” He managed a wan smile, but he was obviously struggling through this conversation. “She said I was one. I asked her how to make things better in my life and then fought her on every turn when she made suggestions.”
“That actually sounds like something you would do.”
He laughed as if I was suddenly doing a stand-up routine. “Yes, well, nobody had ever talked to me like that. Eric said she was blunt, and I thought I would like that. Then I initially didn’t.”
“And now?”
“And now I think she’s a miracle worker.”
I was starting to wonder if she was one too. My father had never been this open and honest with me before. I was lost in a sea of emotions, and I had no idea where to go.
“What did she teach you?” I asked finally.
“That, more often than not in life, I’ve been wrong.”
My eyebrows moved toward one another. “Wrong about what?”
“All of it.” Dad took a deep breath. “I loved your mother. I know you don’t believe that—and I don’t blame you—but I loved her more than anything. I was just taught that relationships should always be proper. Do you remember your grandparents?”
It wasn’t a great transition but I could see where this conversation was going. “I do,” I confirmed. “I used to hate going to their house.”
“Yes, they didn’t believe in toys. We made you leave your matchbox cars at home. Your mother fought me on that every single time we visited. She said there were no other children, and expecting a five-year-old to be quiet and do nothing in a corner was imbecilic.”
“And what did you say?”
“That since it was expected of me when I was a child, there was no reason you couldn’t do it as well.”
“Grandpa died when I was seven, and then we rarely saw Grandma.”
“She moved to Paris. She was much happier there. She actually learned to loosen up once my father was gone. I looked down on her for that, and I regret it.”
He was all over the place now, and I had no idea what to say. “Dad—”
“I’m not done.” Calmly, he raised his chin. “I loved your mother, but I did things a certain way because I thought it was how it had to be. I was wrong—so very wrong—and my biggest regret is that I didn’t realize that sooner.”
Lost for words, I said nothing.
“I was a terrible father to you,” he continued. “I never listened to what you wanted and only cared about what I thought was best. I need you to understand that I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I really did think I was helping.”