Chapter 31
31
Whit Bowman
S tanding in the entryway to the living room, my dad hasn’t seen me yet. I allow myself this moment to watch him. Wearing a mustard-yellow cable-knit cardigan, much like one I own, that looks too big for him now, he looks different. Not from the last time I was here, but in general. He’s lost weight, and he looks frail almost. Not like the man I remember looking up to when I was a kid. His cheekbones are more pronounced, and his skin looks almost lifeless.
I step farther into the room, making my presence known. My dad turns his head, eyes meeting mine as I sit on the couch directly across from where he’s sitting in his recliner. A smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes reflects back at me.
“Son, hi.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you were stopping by today.”
“I woke up this morning and decided to do some deep cleaning of my house,” I tell him. “When I was dusting my hutch, I started looking at all the planes I built, which, of course, reminded me of you. Figured I’d come say hi.”
When I was little, my dad used to build model planes as a hobby. He’d spend hours upon hours on his days off putting these little, tiny pieces together. Of course, being a little boy who looked up to his dad, I wanted to build them too. I wanted to be just like him. It was such a tedious task, and it required such a deep amount of patience, but once he showed me how to make them, I fell in love.
I haven’t built one in years, but I still have all the ones I made from years ago. They always remind me of my childhood, of a time when my relationship with my father wasn’t so strained.
“Well, it’s good to see you,” he murmurs. “How you been?”
“Been good.” It’s a lie. “Just working and getting by. How’ve you been, Dad?”
“Doing alright,” he replies, reaching for his water bottle. “Paul and I are still trying to get out at least a couple times a day to take Callie out for a walk, but it’s been so damn cold lately.”
“What are you watching?” I ask, gesturing toward the television.
“I’m not sure. I was napping before you got here, so whatever was on cable.”
We both do our best to pretend we’re enthralled in whatever movie is playing so we don’t have to endure small talk like we’re a couple of strangers. The truth is, I came here because I’m stalling. I came to visit my dad so I could buy myself some time.
Last night as I was getting home from work, I got another text from Conrad. It’s not the first text he’s sent me in the thirteen days since I moved back into my own place, but it was the first text of him asking me anything.
I haven’t had the strength to reply to any of them, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look forward to them. The first couple of days, I dreaded them. They hurt to read, and I was confused on why he was sending them. Conrad isn’t a texter. He hates technology in general. But after about day three, I realized the ping of the notification brought me a level of comfort I didn’t expect. Reading his messages made me feel closer to him; it made me feel at peace.
It’s why last night’s text when I got home from work was so jarring. Without even looking at my phone, I can recite the message word for word, because I re-read it about twenty-seven times between then and this morning.
Conrad: I was hoping I could ask you to come by the ranch tomorrow evening, say around 4pm. I’d really love to finally talk with you about some things face to face, if you’re ready for that.
Out of twenty-four messages sent, that was the first one I responded to. A simple, ‘okay,’ was all I could give, and it’s felt like my stomach has been clear in my throat ever since. I sent that one-letter response last night, and I’ve been on edge ever since. It’s why I woke up this morning before six a.m. and started cleaning my house. I can’t remember the last time I willingly got out of bed on a Saturday that early, but I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t sit still.
As if my father can read my mind, he glances over at me and asks, “What ever happened to that one man you were dating? What was his name? Ralph?”
“Reggie,” I correct. “We broke up, actually.”
“Oh, how come?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out a simple answer to that question. In the end, I offer him the most painfully honest answer. “Because Dad, I’m still in love with Conrad.”
His hands are clasped together on his lap, and he nods slowly like he doesn’t quite know what to say. “Are you two…” He gestures in front of him. “Back together?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Well, does he know how you feel?”
“Probably not.”
It feels so strange discussing this with my father. While he ended up coming around to my relationship with Conrad—with a man—it was never something we openly and willingly discussed. Hell, I barely even spoke to him about the divorce. We simply don’t have that type of relationship.
“You should tell him,” he replies, like his suggestion is the easiest thing.
I snort. “It’s not that simple, Dad.”
Reaching for the remote, he turns down the volume on the TV, a moment of awkward silence passing between us before he glances over at me. “I don’t know if you ever knew this, but your mother and I separated once.”
“You did?” My eyes widen before I can stop myself. “When?”
He nods once. “It was when you were about a year old. The clinic wasn’t doing great; therefore, we were struggling with money, and dealing with that while also learning how to be new parents took its toll on us as a couple. We had forgotten how to appreciate one another; we’d forgotten what made us fall in love.”
“So, what happened?”
“Your mother went to stay with your grandparents for about six months. I would see you on the weekends when I wasn’t working. Eventually, I pulled my head out of my ass and realized I didn’t want to continue walking through life without the woman I love the most. It wasn’t easy, but eventually, she moved back home with you.”
“Wow,” I breathe out. “I had no idea.”
“Conrad’s a good man,” my dad muses, almost more to himself than me.
“Yes, he sure is.”
Clearing his throat, he looks over at me again. “You should tell him how you feel, son. I know I haven’t been the best father to you, and for that, I am sorry, but you deserve to be happy. I’ve never seen you happier than when you were married to Conrad.”
Emotion clutches my throat, making it hard to breathe. This feels so off base for what my father and I typically talk about when I come here, yet it’s also exactly the type of thing I needed to hear today. Like the universe is looking out for me, giving me a sign that maybe it’s okay if I go over there, after all.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, unable to look at him. I feel way too flayed open right now.
After a while, I get up and fix us a snack while we finish watching whatever awful movie is playing. Being here is still uncomfortable, but something feels like it shifted between us. Like we have a newfound understanding of one another. By the time I leave, I feel lighter.
Driving over to the ranch, my stomach is in knots, but I know whatever happens here, whatever we talk about today… I think maybe everything might be okay.
I park in front of the barn like I always do, beside Conrad’s truck, and as I climb out, I notice a handwritten sign on the barn door. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I walk over to read what it says, my chest tightening as I do.
Whit: Please enter. Inside you will find something for you.
Scanning the yard, I don’t see Conrad anywhere. What the hell is going on? On shaky legs, I drag open the door and walk through the threshold, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. When I take a right and head into the office, I stop in my tracks as I take in the scene before me.
In the center of the room, there’s a round table with a deep red tablecloth draped over it, and two chairs around it. On top of the table, there’s a long-stem candle that’s already burning, two place settings, and what looks like an envelope placed on top of one of the plates. Glancing all around again, like I may find Conrad creeping around the corner, I walk over to the table and grab the envelope. My name is scrawled across the front in Conrad’s handwriting, and I brush my fingers over the messy cursive as I picture him sitting down to write this.
My heart is in my throat as I open the envelope and take out the folded paper. It feels like I may throw up; I’m so nervous. My eyes find the date in the top, right-hand corner, and my knees nearly collapse when I see it was dated four years ago.
Dear Whit,
I don’t know what I’m doing or what I plan to write, I just know I need to do this. It’s been a whole week since you left. If I’m being honest, I selfishly and ignorantly assumed you would come back after a few hours. When you didn’t come back that night, I figured by morning, you’d certainly drive down our gravel road. You’d park beside my truck, and we’d go back to normal.
You didn’t, and honestly, I can’t say that I blame you. You don’t deserve the way I’ve treated you for the last year. Most days, I don’t even recognize the man looking back at me in the mirror. I don’t know who I’ve become, but I’m disgusted with myself. I could easily blame it on the death of my parents. Something that traumatic and sudden is bound to mess somebody up, but I refuse to do that. Not to you. You don’t deserve my excuses.
You deserve the world.
You deserve the moon, the sun, and every single star in the sky.
You deserve so much more than the man I’ve become.
I know this, and yet, I can’t bring myself to let you go. I don’t know how I’m supposed to move through life without you by my side.
I’ve spent the last seven days a shell of a man. I’ve been angry, and hurt, and drunk, but it’s my fault. If I could go back in time, I would cherish you the way you deserve to be cherished. I would let you hold me the way you begged for months to do. I’d tell you how hollow I feel without my parents here. How angry I feel about them being gone. How resentful I am with them leaving me all of this responsibility. I’d tell you how guilty I feel for being angry with them. If I could go back in time, I would learn to get over myself long enough to let you in.
But I can’t. I can’t go back in time, nor can I fix what I’ve already done. I’ve lost you. Lost the one bright, shining light amongst my sea of darkness, and I have nobody to blame but myself. I can’t blame my parents. I can’t blame you. It’s only me.
I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am, Whit.
I hope you’re able to find the happiness you deserve now that you’re free of me. I hope one day you’re able to forgive me for all the hurt I’ve caused you. Not for me, because Lord knows I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but for yourself.
But most of all, I need you to know that I’m going to get help, Whit. I’m going to become a better man, become the man you know I can be. I’m going to work on myself and become the man you deserve. And when I do, I’m going to fall to your feet and beg for your forgiveness.
You are it for me, Whit. You are my end all be all. You’re my calm creek, my soothing lullaby. You are my comfort, my stability. The air in my lungs and the blood in my veins. I will be deserving of your love again one day, I promise you that.
I am so, so sorry for the hurt I’ve put you through.
I love you to the end of the Earth, but until I’m deserving of those words, I will leave you alone. I will give you the space you need to heal, because it’s not your job to fix me. You don’t deserve to be my punching bag. But mark my words… one day, we will be together again. Better than ever. One day, I will be deserving of your light once again.
Love forever,
Connie
Tears blur my vision as I reread the last paragraph. As I take in the moisture stains on the years’ old paper. As I imagine him writing this after I left. The pain he must’ve felt, the courage he needed to find to even put these words out. The way he never gave this to me.
Footsteps sound behind me, and when I turn around, my gaze finds Conrad’s. The sight of him steals my breath away. He looks so handsome standing before me in a fresh white pearl-snap shirt, bolo tie, a pair of dark, snug fit Wranglers, and his fancy boots and hat.
The floodgates open, and I can’t hold back the tears anymore. They fall hot down my face as we gaze at one another.
“I’m glad you came,” he murmurs, voice gruff, sending a shiver down my spine.
My throat aches as moisture wets my cheeks. Raw emotion clutches my chest as I try to make sense of what’s happening. Hands trembling, I look down at the letter, then back up to Conrad.
Closing the distance, Conrad gestures toward the table. “Sit.” Pulling out the chair for me, he adds, “I’ve prepared a dinner for us.”