20. Sydney
“It’s looking great, Neal.” I duck under a wooden beam and lift the hard hat off my head once I clear the main construction zone.
“It’s coming along,” he agrees. “We’ve got a ways to go, but you’ve got to start somewhere, right?”
“That’s right.” I grin back at him.
“Oh, I noted the slight change with the beam in the north bathroom on the plan, per your request, so we’re good to go there,” he says. “And I’ve got a team over at the community land this morning, prepping to get started there this week.”
“Perfect. Let me know before you dig anything over there, though, okay? I want to make sure everything’s mapped out where it needs to be.”
“You got it.” He nods.
“Great. I’ll be back this afternoon to check in. Thanks, Neal.” I hand him my hard hat and wave before rounding the side of the lodge. Instead of heading straight back to my cabin, I head for the beach. I’d like to try something before moving on with the rest of my day.
Thankfully, the beach is pretty much empty, as most guests are either out fishing or are up getting food with Shirley. The noise from Neal’s crew working in the back is fairly loud but nothing I can’t tune out.
I choose an Adirondack chair that faces the lake and settle into it, pulling my knees up to my chest. After a moment of quietly watching the way the lake laps onto shore, letting it calm me, I pull Blair’s journal out of my bag.
I run my hand over the leather binding, feeling an uncomfortable apprehension settle over me. The lake is rolling, a bird is chirping somewhere in the woods, and aside from the faint roar of Neal’s machines behind me, it’s quiet. So, in theory, this should be an ideal place to get in tune with my emotions.
But as I focus on my mom and the overwhelming feeling of grief that inevitably comes along with it, I find my emotions to be anything but clear and concise enough to write down.
I try anyway and open to the first blank page, hovering my pen above it. I reach up to grip my favorite snowflake necklace between my fingers, and I realize I’m not quite sure how to use this journal. Am I supposed to write down my reasons for not wanting to go visit the nursing home? Or do I delve deep into the truth of my emotions surrounding Mom’s illness and attempt to unravel them enough to make sense? Both topics leave a heavy pit in my stomach and an ache in my chest enough to block the urge to do so.
Instead, I jot down three words that encompass my thoughts toward both facing my emotions and going to see my mom.
I’m too scared.
I stare at the words for a while, sitting with them, wondering if I’ll ever be able to push through, until soft boot steps break me out of my thoughts.
“Hey,” Cole says, approaching slowly from the direction of the cabin. In his hands are two to-go coffee cups.
“Morning,” is all I say as he gets closer, closing the journal.
He slides into the chair next to me and offers me one of the cups.
“An official peace offering.” His mouth turns up in a genuine half-smile.
“Thank you.” I can’t help but appreciate the gesture and the way my own mouth slightly turns up. It’s weird to me that I truly don’t mind his presence. In fact, I might even be happy to see him, which is nothing short of confusing to me since there’s still a solid source of anger I feel toward him.
“I need this after you kept me up all night with your obnoxious snoring,” I chide, hiding my smirk behind the cup as I take a sip.
“I don’t snore,” he replies with a straight face.
“Oh, yes you do.” The urge to laugh threatens to burst out of me, but like I’ve found myself doing often lately, I hold it back. A few walls may have been broken down between us, but there’s still one firmly stuck in place for me.
This tug-of-war between my thoughts has been constant ever since he moved into my cabin. I find myself wanting to give in to the easy way it feels between us, for the sake of what could be a genuine friendship, but my brain won’t let me get past the elephant in the room. The one I’ve let fester in the back of my mind for so many years.
Being around him the past few days, living in the same space as him…it feels natural…but I can’t move forward with a friendship while not knowing the truth.
I may not be brave enough to go see my mom, but I think I can find enough strength to address this today.
“Listen,” I start slowly, “I’m more than willing to accept this peace offering and call a truce on this whole thing between us…who knows, maybe we could even be friends.”
He ever so slightly smiles at that.
“But…” I look down at the sand in front of me. “If I’m honest, I’m having a hard time moving past the root of my anger toward you.”
His brows etch together as he studies me. I clear my throat and muster more courage.
“My hurt,” I clarify. “If I ask you something, can you do me a favor and tell me the truth?”
He nods, nothing but authenticity and promise in his eyes. “Sure.”
My voice drops to barely a whisper. “Why did you leave? Back then. Why did you disappear without talking to me?”
His gaze softens, and he swallows as he leans back in the chair.
My heart races uncontrollably. I bite my lip, immediately wondering if I made a mistake, if I really do want to know.
Unable to look at him, I draw my gaze back out to the lake while he shifts in his seat next to me.
“My, uh…” The hesitation is clear in his voice as he leans forward, running a hand along his jaw. “My father liked to paint this picture that there was a solid father-son unit between us. It was the two of us against the world, helping each other get by, despite the abandonment of my mother. That’s what he told the town, anyway.”
My breath gets stuck in my throat as I wait with bated breath for him to continue, confused at where he’s going with this.
“When in reality, he drove my mother away with his fist. Eventually, he ended up doing the same with me.”
My stomach drops as I snap my gaze to his. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was definitely not this.
“He was nothing more than a weak man who resorted to physical violence within our home.”
I seem to have no control over my hand as I reach out to lay it on his forearm. Or the way my thumb brushes against his skin.
“Cole…” My voice trails off as he heaves a deep inhale.
“I hadn’t told him about my plan to leave Baudette as soon as I graduated to meet up with my uncle Paul. My father had a strained relationship with his brother, mostly because my uncle Paul was the only other person who knew the truth about his character. He was the only one to ever intervene and protect me as much as he could. Even when he was out of town, he always checked in on me.”
Tears rim my eyes as I recall bruises on his skin that I thought nothing of at the time. The truth of what they were horrifies me as emotion catches in my throat.
“Anyway, my father found a letter from my uncle that mentioned me going to live with him after graduation, and it set him off. I’d never seen him that mad.”
He runs another hand over his face as he swallows, pausing as if the memory is too hard to relive.
“It was the final straw for me, Sydney. I no longer cared about waiting until after graduation. I took my duffel bag—and broken jaw—and fled.”
A tear runs down my face as I search for the right words to say. Nothing comes to mind as he tilts his head over to me, his gaze darkening with concern as he notes my tears.
“I am sorry for not explaining it to you at the time. I should have,” he says sincerely.
I shake my head and manage to force a few words out in a whisper, “No. I…you didn’t owe me anything.”
He sighs, settling back in his chair as if a weight has been lifted. A resigned calmness takes over him, but my mind is left reeling. How could I have thought the worst of him with no proof? Guilt settles in my stomach as I recall the rumor I flippantly started and watched spread like wildfire with no attempt to stop it.
“So, there was no girlfriend down in Bemidji.” It’s more of a realization than a question.
“What?” He acts like it’s an absurd thing to say, then he shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Hmm.” I let the truth settle as I watch a pelican fly in to land in the bay.
“I’ve never told anyone that before,” he mutters, and I can hear the authenticity in his voice. I rake my gaze over him as my mind continues to process this newfound information. I’m heartbroken for what he had to go through. And for how long he’s had to live with the weight of it.
It’s then that I realize my hand is still resting on his forearm. With a subtle squeeze, I remove it and pull my knees closer to my chest. I wrap my arms around them, resting my chin on my knees.
We sit like that for what feels like an entire hour, just the two of us, watching the waves roll in. One of us, I’d guess, feeling the relief of sharing the weight of a years-old burden…while the other lets it atone for the past.