18 #2
His father always bought a ticket for a single performance of each of Peter’s productions and always congratulated him once
he’d taken his final bows. But Dad never seemed to enjoy the shows, and he never had much to say afterward.
At one time, Peter had considered that a deliberate slight. A sign of his father’s disdain for what he did and who he was.
As an adult, though, he’d come to believe Dad simply didn’t know what to say to him. What would make him happy. What possible
feedback would connect the two of them, when Peter was so different from his father. Not sociable or popular or interested
in organized sports, but a quiet, creative, sometimes moody loner.
Just like his mom.
Which was why, when she and Dad had separated two years before her death, he’d lived with her. After her massive stroke, after
her funeral, he might have returned to that familiar childhood ranch-style house, but it never felt like home again. Not without
her.
He bent his head to his plate and ate his coleslaw, because just like his dad, he didn’t know what to say, and he never had.
What Peter did have to say, his father generally didn’t understand, so it was pointless, and always had been.
Maria’s knee nudged his, but he didn’t look up.
“—try to keep my runs less than an hour, so I don’t have to carry a water bottle.” Dad squeezed more lemon over his remaining fish. “Are you a runner, Maria?”
Peter had to give credit where it was due. At least his father didn’t assume fat people hated or avoided exercise, unlike
many others Peter had met over the years.
“I prefer walking, generally.” Her lips pursed adorably as she sipped her sparkling water through a paper straw. “At the gym,
I mostly focus on strength training or use the rowing machine.”
Thus all that glorious upper-body strength. When they got back to the hotel, he was going to strip her to the waist and lick
a path over—
“Peter’s fiancée preferred treadmills to running outside, and I never understood that,” his father said, shaking his head.
“Why not enjoy the fresh air?”
A more pertinent question: What the actual fuck? Why was his father talking about Anne , of all people?
Beside him, Maria had abruptly straightened in her chair, her thigh tensing against Peter’s. He laid a hand on that warm thigh,
offering silent reassurance, even as the violent clench of his jaw sent a bolt of pain to his temples.
In contrast, his dad leaned back comfortably, obviously settling in for another lecture. “I always told her—”
“ Ex -fiancée,” Peter interrupted without apology, temper edging the words with iron. “Our engagement ended over a decade ago,
Dad. She has no place at this table, and no part in this conversation.”
And Maria should never have found out about her like this, in front of his goddamn father .
But fuck it all, that was on him too, not just his dad.
He should have told her about his broken engagement years ago, wounded pride and instinctive reserve be damned, as soon as he’d begun to understand and trust her.
As soon as she’d become the most important person in his life.
She hadn’t shifted away from his hand, but she hadn’t relaxed under its weight either.
Fair enough. Let this be his penance, then. An offering of pain in apology for a silence that had stretched far too long.
He would tell the story of the woman who’d broken his heart in front of the man who’d done the same, and hopefully Maria would
forgive him.
“I only had one serious relationship before meeting you.” He waited until Maria made eye contact, and looked solely at her.
“Anne, an orthopedic doctor in LA. We were engaged for a few months, a little over ten years ago.”
Her expression had turned opaque, her eyes guarded. But she was listening instead of walking away from him, which was more
than he probably deserved.
“Around the time we got engaged, I was cast as the lead in a big-budget pilot. Up until the last minute, it looked like we
were going to get picked up, but...” His dismissive wave expressed it all. You know how it goes in our industry . “Before the show fell through, I don’t think she understood how precarious the life of a working actor can be. If the pilot
had been picked up, I’d have been more than comfortable, financially. Without the role, I still had enough money for rent
and food, but not much extra for a wedding.”
Maria’s thigh twitched, and her lips pursed. “I thought doctors in the U.S. made good money. Couldn’t she pay for the wedding?”
Of course she’d ask that. Of course she’d defend him.
Maria fucking Ivarsson, the greatest miracle of his life.
“Probably. But she didn’t want to. Not all of it, anyway. One day, she just . . . left.” His chest rose and fell on a silent breath. “No warning. No note. No explanation. I had to find out from mutual acquaintances what happened.”
At that, Maria winced. Probably because, as she well knew, another woman had also left his bed without a word or note. Six
years ago, to be precise.
The circumstances weren’t the same, obviously. A one-night stand didn’t create the same obligations as an engagement. But...
at least she now had a bit more context for his resentment when he’d encountered her in that LA office building the next day.
Some additional explanation for why he’d acted like such a dick in that damn parking lot.
His bitterness wasn’t simply about a wounded male ego. Or at least, not entirely. Her fuck-and-run had inadvertently pressed
on the exact same spot as an old injury and brought it flaring back to painful life. So he’d gotten hurt, and then he’d gotten
pissy.
It was that simple, and that dumb.
“She’d decided my career and life were too volatile for her. She wanted stability.” He’d offered Anne his heart, his loyalty,
and his future, but he couldn’t promise what that future would entail. He’d understood that all along, and she hadn’t. Not
until it was far too late. “She wanted a guarantee she wouldn’t end up supporting us both. So she broke our engagement.”
A man like him couldn’t meet her needs. He got that.
He didn’t blame her for leaving. He could and did blame her for the way she’d done it.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Maria said quietly, her neutral expression softening with sympathy.
On her thigh, the warmth of her hand covered his. Squeezed.
It was a gesture of forgiveness and comfort offered privately, out of his father’s sight. Just for the two of them. He smiled
softly at her in gratitude. In—relief.
Telling her about such a painful part of his past had hurt, but now the story was in her capable, gentle hands. She’d keep it safe there. She’d keep him safe, and that realization was like sinking into a hot bath after a lifetime spent wading through rocky, icy shallows.
Dad cleared his throat. “I told Peter he should choose a different major for a more stable career path, but—”
“So, Daniel.” This time, Maria was the one to interrupt his father, her voice bland and perfectly polite. “You said you attended
university here in Madison? Like Peter?”
After a final squeeze of Peter’s hand, she let him go to refill her glass with San Pellegrino, and they both resumed eating.
“Yes. It’s where I worked too.” His father’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “Peter and I were based in two different
parts of campus, though. I majored in accounting and worked in the bursar’s office, and Peter got his bachelor’s in theater,
so our paths didn’t cross much, even when we were there at the same time. Especially since he chose to live on campus instead
of at home.”
Another choice his dad had found inexplicable and argued against, although seeing Peter caused him nothing but consternation
and pain.
They both knew it. Neither of them had ever said it. Not even his father, for all his facility with words.
Maria placed her fork on her plate so carefully, it didn’t clink. “He graduated summa cum laude, correct?”
Peter’s own fork paused halfway to his mouth. How the fuck did she know that ?
“Yes, and I wasn’t surprised. Peter was always bright, and whatever he decided to do, he did well.
He could have majored in anything. Excelled at any job.
” His father’s words sounded like praise.
Almost. If you didn’t hear the lament in each syllable.
“But right after graduation, he left for Los Angeles, and that was it. He never moved back to the area or returned to school.”
“Why would he?” Maria’s head tipped to one side. “He’s been a successful actor for twenty years now, has he not?”
Anyone who didn’t personally know her would swear that was an innocent question, born of genuine confusion. But he knew that
tone. When he raised his head from contemplation of his plate, he knew that look on her face too. And maybe a better person
would have intervened at that point, but...
Yeah. He was who he was.
“More or less.” His father’s brow creased. “Like Peter said, an acting career doesn’t offer a steady income. The first few
years, he had to do construction work to make ends meet.”
True enough. Early on, the parts Peter landed were too small and didn’t pay enough. The few leading-man roles he got offered,
the story usually revolved around his size, and he didn’t want those parts unless they guaranteed him either a lot of money
or a lot of fame. Which they hadn’t, so he’d continued playing bit roles for far too long.
“Ah. So he had to supplement his acting income, like virtually all Hollywood hopefuls.” Her shoulder hitched in a graceful,
dismissive shrug. “And almost every single one of those hopefuls eventually gives up and leaves, or stays but never finds
success. Your son is the exception, Daniel. A man who’s defied incredibly steep odds and carved out a meaningful career through
sheer talent and stubbornness and hard work.”
Hearing that—fuck, it felt good. So good, he couldn’t breathe for a moment.
His father blinked at her. “He’s very talented, of course. As I’ve often told him, he should have been winning awards well
before his role on Gods of the Gates .”
Dad had frequently said that over the years. Peter would have been flattered, only the comment always sounded less like outrage on
his behalf and more an implication that awards might justify his career choice.
His father best understood concrete accomplishments. Blue ribbons. Varsity letters. Diplomas. Certificates. Race times. Expensive
homes. And yes, paychecks and statuettes, which was why the role of Cyprian had finally reconciled him to Peter’s career.
Somewhat.
The significance of years and years of steady work in Hollywood before Gods of the Gates , the joy of excelling at a craft he loved... things like that were difficult for his dad to grasp, and thus difficult
to praise. And Peter knew—he knew —he could have made everything easier on his father. Could have tried harder to explain himself and the details of his career
and its context in a way Dad might comprehend more easily.
But his parents had been married for a decade and a half when they separated, and despite all those years, despite choosing
each other and committing to a life together in front of a minister and dozens of guests, his father had never understood
the woman he’d wed, and he’d never understood why she left. If she—his fucking wife —hadn’t managed to make herself known in all that time, what chance did Peter have?
There was a fundamental disconnect somewhere, and it was no one’s fault. He got that now, in a way he hadn’t even a decade
earlier. Just as he could now study his father and see very clearly that Daniel Reedton had never really recovered from losing
his beloved Patty.
That slight rounding of his shoulders didn’t appear in photos until after she’d packed her bags and moved to an apartment across town.
It only got worse after she died, once his father knew she couldn’t ever come back.
Same with those bags beneath his eyes and the deep lines across his forehead.
Same with that awful lost expression whenever he stopped talking long enough for the memories to surface, or when he unexpectedly encountered a photo
or heard the name of the woman he’d courted and married at the age of twenty-three.
The woman who’d left him at thirty-eight.
The woman who’d died at forty.
He’d loved her. He hadn’t understood her, but he’d loved her.
Just as he loved Peter. Sincerely. Without an ounce of comprehension but plenty of pain.
“Yes, Peter should have shelves full of awards dating back to the beginning of his career. He deserved them.” Maria held his
father’s tired blue eyes, her voice gentle but firm. “But in some ways, what he accomplished before being cast in Gods of the Gates , before receiving his first statuette, is more extraordinary than any award he could earn. I hope you realize that.”
Across the table, Dad shifted in his seat. “Of course I do.”
“Good,” Maria said simply, then buttered a piece of sourdough bread. “Because your son deserves that too.”
Given her trademark outspokenness, it was the mildest possible reprimand, and fuck , he loved her for it. Loved her for defending him so carefully, even after belatedly discovering the existence of his ex-fiancée.
Loved her for attempting to bridge the yawning gap between him and his sole remaining family member. Loved her for the soft
press of her body against his side, silent comfort provided to a silent man.
Loved her, period. End of sentence.
He looked again at his father’s strong, slumped shoulders. His shadowed eyes. His furrowed forehead. The silent record of his grief for the woman he’d married and lost, inscribed on his body for always.
Dad hadn’t gotten over her.
He wouldn’t get over her.
And for the first time, Peter thought maybe he did in fact understand his father. If only a little.