Chapter 11
ELEVEN
HALLIE
I haven’t painted in a long time.
Not for myself, anyway. First, it was because I was too focused trying to survive in my university classes, so I let my creative outlet fall to the wayside. After I graduated, I found myself too busy with work.
Now I find myself unsure how to handle a blank canvas. The entire wall is empty, free for the taking, according to Gabe. He put all his faith in me, and I’m trying not to convince myself it was misplaced.
I can do this .
My sketchbook sits on the ground at my feet, full of several renderings of the wall in front of me. I hate all of them.
Maybe I can’t do this .
With a sigh, I set the paintbrush on the rim of the paint can. The wall is primed, but I can’t decide whether I should paint it the same as the others or step outside the box.
The guesthouse door opens behind me, letting in a cool breeze. It feels good against the back of my neck.
“Foster?”
“Hey,” I say, turning to face Gabe.
He’s still dressed in his work clothes, and I have to admit, he looks good . Too good. I can feel my cheeks turning red as my thoughts travel down that dangerous path.
“It’s looking great in here,” he says, stepping inside and slowly turning, admiring the work I’ve done. Three of the walls have a fresh coat of light pink paint. “I could’ve used you a long time ago.”
I blush harder. “Thank you.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, then mumble a curse when I get paint on myself.
With a laugh, Gabe grabs the rag I’ve been using and takes a step closer. I suck in a sharp breath at his proximity, not even daring to breathe as he leans in. With one hand on my chin, he angles my head to the side and wipes the paint from my skin.
“There.” For some reason, the word sends a shiver down my spine. “That’s better.”
I purposefully take a step back so I don’t lose all brain function from our proximity.
Gabe sets the rag down before he pulls a white envelope from his pocket. “Clara gave me this to give to you. The letter went to Pops’s old place. The Frasers live there now, and they brought it to Dockside this morning,” he explains.
With a furrowed brow, I take the envelope from him. I haven’t lived at that address for a decade now. Some of my mail still went to Pops’s house while I was in school, but I changed everything when he moved to his retirement home.
The penmanship on the front isn’t one I recognize. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to send me something in the mail asking for money after I refused to answer the phone the last few times she’s called, but I know Amanda’s loopy scrawl and this isn’t it.
“Did Clara say anything else about it?” I ask. Like maybe who it’s from.
Gabe shakes his head. “She didn’t.”
With a fortifying breath, I hook my nail under the flap and rip into the envelope.
Hallie,
My name is Kevin Landell. I don’t know if you recognize my name, but in the case that you don’t, I’ll be direct. I had a short relationship with Amanda Foster about 29 years ago. I’m your father.
Before I get into this, I want to say that I understand you owe me nothing.
After almost three decades of no contact, I understand if you want that to continue.
I wouldn’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame you if you decide not to finish reading this letter, but on the off chance that you do, I’m going to say what I need to say. What you deserve to hear.
First, I’m sorry. I know that a simple apology is woefully inadequate, but I am truly sorry for missing out on all these years with you.
It is my greatest regret, as is not coming to my senses sooner.
I recently went through some health issues that made me see my life through a different lens, and I have come to understand just how wrong I have been.
I am far from a perfect man, but I am trying to be better. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but would you talk with me? I want to explain as best I can, and get to know you, if you are willing. I’ll leave that in your hands. And once again, I’m sorry.
My phone number is written at the bottom, in case you ever feel like reaching out.
Sincerely, Kevin
“Hallie?”
It takes me a second to realize my hands are shaking. When Gabe pries the paper away from me, I finally look up. The amount of concern in his expression makes me wonder if he called my name more than once.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I…” Am I okay? I shake my head. “That letter is from my father.”
“Your father ?”
He sounds as shocked as I feel. The last thing I expected to be inside that envelope was…that.
“He wants to see me.” My tongue is dry, scraping against the inside of my mouth. “He wants to see me .”
Gabe scoffs. “That’s the least he could do.”
Like I’m in a trance, I drift across the room and practically fall back onto the end of the bed. It’s just a bare mattress now, stripped of its sheets when I moved into the main house. Gabe follows warily, stopping to stand in front of me.
“When I was little, that was all I wanted,” I say quietly, gesturing to the paper in Gabe’s hand. “So many times, I wanted him to take me away. Because he had to be better than my mom.”
Gabe’s eyes soften. “Foster…”
“That was my birthday wish for at least ten years. I’d blow out my candles and wish he’d show up at the door. And now he’s reaching out, and I— I can’t?—”
My resolve shatters, and tears start to fall. Then the sob works its way up my throat, getting caught before it springs free. I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it’s no use.
Gabe sits beside me on the bed. The next thing I know, he hauls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I want to pull away, to keep a healthy distance between us, especially after I’ve already spent a night in his bed, but I can’t.
Instead, I press my face into his neck and let him comfort me, despite how guilty it makes me feel.
Stop using him, Hallie. You’re exactly like the mother you claim to hate .
The voice is right, of course. I’m a hypocrite. I shouldn’t be seeking comfort from the man whose heart I stomped on all those years ago. Still, I cling to him. His ever-steady presence is the only reason I haven’t fully succumbed to my emotions, which roil inside me, just waiting to spill free.
Sadness. Relief. Anger. Hope. Desperation. They all fight for dominance. Why now ? Why now, when I’m a mess who feels like she’s simply floating through life with no real direction, does he decide to reach out?
When the tears eventually slow, I pull back, swiping at my cheeks. My eyes feel puffy and swollen, and I’m sure I look like a disaster, but Gabe’s gaze is void of judgment. Regardless, my face flames.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, disentangling myself from him. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
The last thing I wanted was to fall apart on him. To burden him. It’s already bad enough I’m living with him, taking up his space.
When I try to stand, his arms keep me trapped in his lap. New conflicting emotions swirl inside me—the urge to curl up against his chest and beg him to never let me go versus the panic brought on by our closeness.
“You don’t have to do that with me, Foster.”
“Do what?”
“Run when shit gets hard.”
It has always been more difficult with Gabe.
Clara is my best friend, sure, but I’ve always been able to balance opening up to her while keeping her far enough away so as not to witness the depths of my dysfunction.
Her brother, on the other hand, managed to find a way to slip past all of my defenses. All of my safeguards.
This time, when I try to slide off Gabe’s lap, he lets me go. I cross the room, dragging in a deep breath now that it won’t be full of his cologne. My heartbeat settles, but I find that in the stillness, there’s a hollow ache.
“What do you want to do with this?” he asks, folding the letter back into neat thirds.
“I have to do it,” I say, eyes darting from the paper to Gabe’s waiting stare. “I have to see him. Right?”
His fingers tighten on the letter. “You don’t have to do anything. You have every right to start a bonfire with this and never think of the man again.” His grip loosens, and he sighs, giving me a soft smile. “But I know that’s not what you want to do.”
He tries to mask it, but I can see Gabe’s frustration.
He’s never been happy about the relationship—or lack thereof—I have with my parents.
Of course he wouldn’t be. Maggie and John are the best parents you could ask for.
They’re not perfect, but they beat my own by a long shot.
And Gabe’s a dad himself. A great one. He’d never in a million years abandon Abbie the way my father abandoned me.
There is a part of me that wants to hang on to my anger. My hurt. But the bigger part of me is curious. Is this what it is to finally be wanted? After twenty-eight years, I want to truly know what that feels like.
“Is that stupid?” I ask. With everything I do, there’s always a seed of doubt that takes root.
Gabe shakes his head. “You’re allowed to feel however you feel about this, and you’re allowed to do what feels right to you. No one, least of all me, can tell you any different.”
I wish someone could tell me what’s right. Which path will carry the least amount of heartache. I’m not good with the unknown. In that liminal space, my brain is free to make up whatever scenarios it sees fit, to prepare me for the worst. And then I spiral.
But Gabe’s gaze, warm and trained on me, lends me strength. I may not know what will come of this, but if I don’t try, I’ll only be left wondering. Do I want to live with that for the rest of my life?
“I want to meet him,” I finally say.
Gabe nods as he holds the paper out. “Then you should reach out. You’re not obligated to do anything beyond that, but at least you’ll know.”
I take a step closer, back to him, and take the letter. I run my finger over the surface. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to fall apart on you, but thanks for holding all my pieces. Helping me put them back together.”
He stands from the bed, and his familiar scent invades my senses again. “As long as I’m around, that’s never something you’ll have to do alone.”
I don’t deserve this. You. Your kindness . He would only refute it if I tried to tell him, so I don’t. But the guilt wraps around me anyway, like the comforting embrace of an old friend.