Chapter Fifty-One. Rowan
FIFTY-ONE
Rowan
He looks frail.
Of all the ways in my life that I’ve thought of my dad, frail is not one of them.
And yet right now with tubes and leads attached to him, with his skin gray and his lips lax, that’s exactly how he looks.
But there is a comfort to the beeps of the machines and the squeaky shoes walking on the linoleum floor. They are signs that he is going to be okay.
“I’m here, Dad,” I say softly as I grab his hand and sit down in the chair beside the bed.
Ten minutes. That’s all the time I get with him, but I’m grateful I at least get that.
“You scared us. Are scaring us.” I wipe the tear that falls with the back of my hand and exhale a shaky breath.
But even now, even in this scary moment, there is an awkwardness between us. Between what I want to say and what I feel is appropriate to say.
I’m sorry we’re not closer.
I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be.
I’m sorry to have let you down.
But honestly, I’m not really sorry at all.
The tears come. Hard and fast, and it must just be because I’m loopy-tired and all the stress of the past few hours has finally hit me. But I think it’s so much more than that.
It’s the realization that I can love this man unconditionally—despite everything—and I fear that it’s not reciprocal.
He hasn’t really talked to me since the announcement of the co-CEO.
He hasn’t said a word since The Vine.
It’s one of those things to think you’ve disappointed your parents, but it’s a whole other ball game when you realize you actually did.
And maybe it’s that right now that is gutting me. The knowledge that I have to be who I am, even knowing it will forever change my relationship with my parents and how they look at me.
And then I wonder if maybe this accident, this brush with death, will allow my dad to see me in a different light.
That he’ll accept me and my ambition rather than think less of me for it.
He won’t.
I know deep in my heart of hearts he won’t.
I study him. The strong hands I used to hold on to as a child. The broad chest I used to rest my head on when I slept. The face I used to look to for encouragement when I doubted myself. And the same face I look at now, knowing we see each other through such different gazes.
A man who did so many things right in his life and a lot of things knowingly wrong. And I realize I am silently asking him to accept me for who I am and I can’t do the same for him.
Forgiveness isn’t a two-sided requirement.
I rise from my seat and press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Dad,” I murmur. “I love you because that’s the only thing I know how to do right when it comes to you.”
I give him one last look as a tear slips down my cheek.
He’s going to be okay.
He has to be okay.
And then I walk out of the ICU. Each step down the clinically white hallway has memories flashing back.
Squeaky shoes on linoleum as Cassie’s code was called.
Harsh commands being ordered in a rush of urgency.
A constant sound instead of the steady beep of machines.
The devastation on the doctor’s face as he walked toward us.
My mom’s screams.
Each step is an assault on my memory. Memories that were blocked out by the fear of losing my dad, but now that I’ve seen him, now that I know he’s going to be okay, they come back with a vengeance.
To the point that when I walk out to the waiting room, it must be written all over my face. Chad is up and by my side in seconds.
“Row? Is everything okay? Talk to me.”
“Yes. He’s … he’s okay. I have to get out of this place. I can’t breathe. I need—”
“Let’s get you outside.” He wraps an arm around me and helps me the short distance to the outdoor sitting area.
I welcome the cooler morning air as I close my eyes and lift my face to the sky. I don’t even realize it but I’m humming a Clayton Seaburn piece as a means to calm myself down.
“What do you need from me?” Chad asks as he runs a hand up and down the length of my spine. “Where do you want me to take you?”
I meet his eyes but don’t put a voice to the thoughts I’m sure he sees in mine. “Nowhere in particular. I think I’m just going to take a drive to clear my head.”
“I can take you. I can drive.”
I reach out and put my hand on his arm and squeeze. “Thank you, but I just want to be alone.”
“Fine. Sure.” He takes a step back and studies me. “Drive safe.”
“Of course.”
And as I walk to the parking lot, with the weight of his stare on my back, I hope he believes me.
I hope he doesn’t know I’m going to the only place I can think to go.