Chapter Thirty-One #2
Dad puffed out an audible breath and set his pole in the holster. “It’s my fault that you had to deal with a hell of a lot more than a kid should’ve. But I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I told myself staying would just make things worse for you.”
“But you didn’t fight for me,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “You started over. New wife. New kids. You were just . . . gone. And I was the one left picking Mom up off the floor.”
“I didn’t know how bad it got for you,” he said. “Not until much later. And by then . . . I didn’t think you’d want my help.”
“Maybe I didn’t. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t need you to try. To offer it. To at least feign the illusion that you were there for me.”
His jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to reach out to touch my arm, but he didn’t. “I’m so sorry, El. And I know saying that now doesn’t fix anything, but it’s the truth. You deserved a better dad.”
The ocean stretched out before us, indifferent and infinite, and something about it made my chest ache. Looking down at my hands on the pole, my knuckles had gone white. I opened my mouth, then closed it. I didn’t know how to respond to his confession.
Yeah, I sure as shit deserved a better dad! I deserved the version Allegra and Cannon knew.
But firing shots now wouldn’t change anything about anything. And this was the most we’d ever spoken about it . . . ever, and it felt like something had shifted between us.
“You want to know why things are hard for me, Dad?” I asked. Now with the gates thrown open, I couldn’t seem to keep my feelings at bay. “Because every time anyone gets close, I brace for impact. I’m so afraid to let anyone really see me. To need anyone.”
“You know, your mom and I, we listen to your radio show. And . . . I want to phrase this the right way because, of course, we’re proud of your success, but the hurt you wear so boldly on your sleeve and the hard time you have letting anyone close, we know we’ve both had a hand in forging that armor.
And we thought maybe, just maybe, if we came here as a bit more of a united front, we could show you that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” he said.
“That relationships, like people, are complicated. Flawed. But they’re not worthless because of those things. ”
I was speechless. Dad and his family showing up wasn’t a thoughtless, selfish act, but an intentional attempt to reach me, to convey that in spite of our past, we could have some semblance of a better relationship in the future.
Just then my rod snapped taut, and I knew I had something on the line.
Dad leaned over the railing to see. “Looks like you got a live one there.”
My pole bent sharply, the reel whining in protest, and I leaped into motion to grasp the handle with both hands, and braced for the struggle.
“Don’t yank it,” he said quickly, maneuvering himself behind me. His voice snapped into something calm and steady. “Let it run for a second. That’s a strong pull. You’ve got a real fighter.”
The line zipped out, the pole bucking like it was being shocked to life. My heart pounded, part adrenaline, part panic.
“Okay, now ease it back toward you and keep the tip up,” he coached. Dad stepped in closer, one hand hovering near mine on the rod, not touching, just ready. “Short pulls. Reel as you lower. You got this.”
I tightened my grip with renewed focus, my arms straining. The fish jerked and yanked with surprising strength, but I countered, feeling it tire with each crank of the reel. Dad leaned over the railing again to try to get a better view and let out a long, impressed whistle.
“She’s right there, El. Right at the surface. Just don’t let her dive under the boat, it’s what instinct will tell her to do,” he instructed.
“I’m . . . trying,” I grunted, wrenching the rod back and forth against whatever was on the line.
Though he stood close, he still kept his hands back, allowing me to earn each inch gained on my own. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead and moistened my neck, but I wouldn’t forfeit even a centimeter to swipe them away.
Then when it seemed Moby Dick and I were destined to be permanently locked in a stalemate of wills, my muscles screaming in opposition, Dad stepped forward to offer help.
I gave a small nod, and he came in behind me, his arms circling mine, his hands gently covering my own.
My pulse thundered in my ears, but it wasn’t just the fish causing it.
It was the strange feeling of support. Of not being alone in the fight.
“Keep the pressure on,” he instructed. “We’ve almost got ’em.”
Together, we gave the pole a few hearty heaves and finally, a glint of silver-green broke through the surface with a splash. The fish thrashed wildly, water spraying up like a fountain. A flash of gold shimmered in the sun, bright and brilliant.
With one last heave, we brought it up and over the side of the boat, the fish landing in the bucket with a thud that felt almost symbolic. I collapsed back against the railing, my arms shaking, laughter bubbling up in my throat.
“Well, look at us,” Dad said, a huge smile forming on his face.
I turned toward him, brushing hair off my damp forehead. “Yeah, look at us. Thanks, I don’t think I could’ve reeled it up on my own.”
“No way, that fish fought like hell. It was a two-person job, no question.”
Just as Dad was freeing the fish from the line, Shira and Allegra appeared from the front of the boat.
“We heard all the excitement and wanted to see what was happening back here?” Shira said.
Dad proudly held up the mahi-mahi. “We caught ourselves a sea monster.” He dug in his pocket for his phone. “Can you take a picture of us? I’ll want to remember this day.” Passing it to Shira, he pulled me in close for a side hug and held the fish out like it was the catch of the century.
“Okay, you two. On the count of three,” Shira said, counting down till she snapped the shot. “I got it. Now that you’re done with the photo op, think we can toss her back, so she can live out her best fish life?”
Dad passed me the mahi-mahi. I leaned out, waited for a swell, and gave her a careful shove back into the sea, her tail splashing as she disappeared beneath the waves.
We fished a bit longer, our lines casting lazy arcs across the cerulean water, but nothing else bit.
We sat in silence, but it wasn’t awkward anymore.
This time, it was the kind of quiet that comes after a long and very overdue conversation.
The air turned sticky and bright as the sun climbed higher in the clear blue sky, and by the time we anchored back at the hotel pier, Marin climbed out of the boat’s galley like she’d only been slightly run over by a freight train.
“Come on, lady,” I said, threading my arm through hers as we stepped onto the dock. “Let’s get you some good meds and a dark air-conditioned room.”
She managed a weak smile. “If I die, tell my kids I love them.”
About ten minutes after I’d tucked Marin in with a bottle of ginger ale, some antinausea medicine, and a cool compress, she slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.
I stayed by her side for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. When a sudden, loud snore broke the silence, confirming she was out like a light, I left a note on her bedside table, grabbed my laptop, and quietly slipped out the door.