23. Chapter 23 #2
"He talked about character. About being the same man in private that you are in public. About responsibility."
He pauses.
"Then he looked me dead in the eye and said the world will forgive a man almost anything except abandoning what's his."
The joke disappears. So does mine.
Because something in Darius's face changes. I've spent months learning his expressions. The public ones. The angry ones. The cocky ones.
This one is new.
"He looked at every mistake I've ever made and somehow didn't make me feel like one."
The words come out quietly. Almost like he's still trying to understand them.
"The affair. The fights. The burner account. All of it was right there on the table."
His jaw tightens.
"He didn't excuse any of it. But he didn't act like it was the only thing he could see either."
I don't say anything.
Darius stares at the floor for a second before continuing.
"He asked me what kind of man I wanted to be."
The hallway falls quiet.
I wait. Because it feels like there's more. A lot more.
Darius lets out a slow breath and looks down the corridor.
"Then he asked me what made me the man I am."
His mouth twists.
"That's supposed to be an easy question."
"Wasn't it?"
"No."
The answer comes immediately.
For the first time since he walked out of my father's room, he looks unsettled. Not by my father. By himself.
"I started giving him the usual stuff. Football. Discipline. Coaches. Hard work."
He shakes his head.
"And halfway through saying it, I realized none of it was true."
I stare at him.
"What do you mean?"
He takes a second before answering. Like he's choosing whether to say it out loud.
"I think I've spent most of my life running."
The words land between us.
"Running from what?"
A humorless laugh escapes him.
"That's the problem. I always thought I knew."
His gaze drops to the floor.
"When Ethan died, everybody kept telling me it wasn't my fault."
My chest tightens. Darius rarely talks about his brother.
"When you're a kid, that doesn't matter. Everybody can tell you something wasn't your fault, but if you were there when it happened..." He swallows. "Part of you still wonders if you could've done something different."
My throat goes tight.
"Darius—"
"I know it wasn't my fault."
The words come quickly. Too quickly. Like he's repeated them enough times to memorize them.
"I know that now."
But.
He doesn't say the word. He doesn't have to. I hear it anyway.
"But part of me spent years acting like I had something to make up for."
His voice drops.
"Every fight. Every stupid decision. Every time I blew something up that mattered..." He shakes his head. "Maybe I was angry. Maybe I was immature. Maybe I was just scared that if I stopped moving long enough, I'd have to figure out who I was without all of it."
The hallway suddenly feels too small.
"What did my father say?"
Darius is quiet for a long moment.
Then he laughs softly. Not because anything is funny. Because he's still trying to believe it.
"He said my brother wouldn't want me serving a sentence for something that wasn't my fault."
My eyes burn.
Darius looks away.
"And the worst part is I think he's right."
For a second neither of us speaks.
Then he shakes his head.
"I walked into that room ready to defend myself."
His eyes lift to mine.
"Instead your father made me realize I'm still trying to figure out who I want to be."
I reach over and take his hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and certain.
"He wants to see you now," Darius says. "Go. I've got the hallway."
***
My father is sitting up when I come in.
The head of the bed is raised, the monitor beeping slow and even beside him, and someone has folded his reading glasses on the tray table next to a cup of ice water he hasn't touched.
He looks smaller in the gown. He looks older. But his eyes are clear, and when they land on me, they soften in a way I'm not braced for.
"Claire Elizabeth."
"Hi, Daddy."
I sit in the chair beside the bed.
I'm waiting for the scripture. The verse about guarding the heart, the one about being unequally yoked, the gentle artillery he's been firing at me since the first headline. I have my answers loaded. I've had them loaded for weeks.
He doesn't quote anything.
He looks at his hands on the blanket for a long moment, and then he looks at me.
"I owe you an apology."
I blink.
"Dad—"
"No. Let me say it before I lose my nerve."
A laugh slips out of him. It's weak. Tired. Nothing like the voice that used to fill an entire sanctuary.
And somehow that makes it worse.
He looks down at our joined hands. For a second I think he's forgotten what he was going to say.
Then he shakes his head.
"You know what I kept telling myself all these years?"
I don't answer.
"I kept telling myself I was preparing you for the world."
His mouth twists.
"That's what fathers are supposed to do, right?"
Something tightens in my chest. Because I already know where this is going.
"I wanted you to be strong. Responsible. Dependable."
He lets out a breath.
"And somewhere along the way, I started treating those things like they mattered more than your happiness."
"Dad..."
"I know."
His eyes lift to mine. The look in them steals the rest of the words from my mouth.
"I know."
For a moment neither of us speaks. The monitor fills the silence.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"When your mother was pregnant with you, I used to talk to her stomach."
Despite myself, I smile.
"You did not."
"I absolutely did."
The corner of his mouth lifts.
"I'd tell you all the things I was going to teach you."
A lump forms in my throat.
"How to be brave. How to stand up for yourself. How to treat people."
His smile fades.
"I don't remember ever saying I wanted you to be perfect."
The tears hit so fast they surprise me. I look away. It doesn't help.
Because suddenly I'm remembering every report card. Every church event. Every time I thought disappointing him would be the worst thing that could happen to me.
"I wasn't trying to be perfect."
My voice comes out small. I hate how small it sounds.
"I know."
A tear slips down my cheek, and the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
"I just wanted you to be proud of me."
For a second I wish I could take them back, but then I see his face, and he looks just as wrecked as I feel.
"Oh, darling."
His voice breaks. Actually breaks. I've never heard that happen before. Not once. Not in twenty-eight years.
"I was proud of you."
Another tear slides free.
"I am proud of you."
His fingers tighten around mine.
"Claire, you could've quit your job tomorrow, moved into a cabin in the woods, and spent the rest of your life raising chickens."
A laugh escapes me through the tears.
"What?"
"I'm serious."
His own eyes are wet now.
"I would've driven out there every Sunday and bragged about those chickens to anybody who would listen."
I laugh again. Then I cry harder.
Because for the first time in my life, I believe him. Not the pastor. Not the father standing behind a pulpit.
Just my dad.
And somehow that's the thing that finally breaks me.
I lower my head and cry into our joined hands while he strokes my hair the same way he used to when I was little. Neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
For once, there isn't anything left to prove.
***
When I finally leave my father's room, my face feels tight from crying.
My mother is waiting in the corridor.
The moment I see the expression on her face, my stomach drops. It's subtle. Barely there. But I know that look. It's the same look she used to get when Hannah tried to lie about sneaking cookies before dinner, or when Jacob swore he hadn't tracked mud through the house.
The look that says she's already reached a conclusion and is simply waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
And suddenly I know she's about to be very annoying.
She stands when she sees me and holds out a small white pharmacy bag.
For a second, I just stare at it.
Then I stare at her.
"Mom."
She smiles patiently.
"I bought two."
I close my eyes.
"Oh my God."
"The Lord has been through enough today, Claire."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. After everything that happened in that room, after my father apologized and somehow managed to unravel thirty years of baggage in a single conversation, this is the thing that makes me want to crawl under a chair and hide.
"I am not pregnant."
My mother presses the bag into my hands.
"Then you'll have an answer soon enough."
I hate that response because it's annoyingly reasonable. She knows it too. That's the worst part.
My gaze drops to the bag.
An hour ago this was a ridiculous internet rumor, the kind of story people shared for entertainment before moving on to the next scandal. Now I'm standing in a hospital hallway wondering if there might be truth buried underneath it.
Down the corridor, Jacob laughs at something Darius says. The sound carries through the waiting room, easy and familiar, and my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Darius laughs too, and for a second I can picture it without even looking. Jacob hanging on every word. Hannah rolling her eyes. Darius right in the middle of it like he belongs there.
My fingers tighten around the paper bag.
And for the first time all day, I find myself asking the question everyone else already seems convinced they know the answer to.
Am I?