Chapter 60 #2
At this point, Dad has support from Connor, Kalen, Cameron—and from me, too.
I assume Ansel will come around, but he’s still hesitant.
He was only eight when Dad left, just a year older than me, so neither of us really knew him.
Kalen and Connor were nine then—old enough to remember and to have seen addiction up close, which probably explains their empathy.
Roman was ten; Asher and Silas were twelve; Cameron was fourteen.
Ansel, across from me, toys with his napkin and sips his wine, visibly torn.
Finally, he speaks: “Dad, I forgive you—but can I trust you? Can any of us? What if something else goes wrong—God forbid one of us is in crisis? Will you disappear on us again, vanish once we open up? I can’t speak for everyone, but I don’t know if I could recover a second time. ”
Dad's shoulders slump. "I can't promise I'll never leave again. All I can say is that with my sons behind me, I stand a better chance. My AA meetings give me strength I never had before. And I love you boys more than anything..."
"Ansel," I say, leaning forward. "Think about it.
We were just kids when he left—vulnerable, needing everything from him.
The weight of that responsibility..." I gesture between us.
"Look at us now. Grown men with our own lives, our own successes.
Dad doesn't have to be perfect anymore. He just has to be present. "
Ansel's expression softens. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
Ansel will come around. But what about Asher and Silas?
Of all my brothers, Asher is the one I understand the least. I was labeled gifted—reading Dickens at four, earning my PhD at twenty-two—but Asher has always been on another plane.
Celeste jokes that I’m “Good Max Hunting,” riffing on the genius in that Gus Van Sant film.
I’m nowhere near that level; Asher is. He can absorb a thousand-page nuclear physics text in thirty minutes and grasp every concept.
Physics may not be his passion—art is—but his encyclopedic knowledge of every work in art history astonishes me.
Both he and Ansel are prodigious musicians—Ansel a near-maestro on piano, Asher a cellist rivaling Yo-Yo Ma.
Asher also speaks six languages fluently, accents down perfectly—like Oppenheimer mastering Dutch in six weeks.
He’s also an accomplished artist in his own right.
It’s always been a struggle for me to relate to Asher; his mind simply processes faster than anyone I know.
All eyes turn to Asher. He’s the only one who hasn’t spoken or rendered a verdict on whether or not he’s willing to forgive Dad and reestablish a relationship with him.
Asher clears his throat when he notices our stares.
"I don't think Dad will abandon us again.
Max is right—we're grown now. Things will be different.
" He shifts in his chair, turning toward Dad with the same expression he wears when examining a new painting.
"I'm curious about your internal evolution.
What changed between then and now? You say you felt ready, but ready how? Why this particular moment?"
That's Asher for you. Always dissecting emotions like specimens.
Back in high school, I'd find him in his room with art books spread open beside psychology textbooks, cross-referencing them with sticky notes.
"The brain processes beauty mathematically," he once told me while we stood before a Rothko, his eyes tracking invisible patterns while mine just felt the weight of all that red.
Even now, when we visit galleries, he carries a small notebook, jotting observations about viewer reactions rather than his own feelings.
"Art isn't about what you feel," he insists. "It's about what you know."
Dad chuckles. "My Asher," he says. "Always digging for the root cause.
" He nods. "I was standing on a cliff overlooking the Celtic Sea near Uncle Thomas's farm in Cornwall.
I'd escape there whenever I needed space.
Something shifted that day—like a fog lifting.
I couldn't keep running. My life had become this endless sprint away from everything that mattered.
" His voice drops. "But the drinking... that demon stayed with me until Celeste dragged me to my first AA meeting.
That woman saved me in ways I can never repay. "
Asher's face remains carefully neutral. I recognize that expression—he's processing, searching for the logical progression my father's story lacks.
Asher needs methodical transformation, documented steps of psychological evolution.
A single moment of clarity on a windswept cliff?
Too mystical, too convenient for his analytical mind to embrace without skepticism.
He exhales heavily. "I'm struggling to understand. Didn't you seek professional help during your time in England?"
Dad's gaze drops to his hands. "The farm was my therapy.
Waking before dawn to milk the cows. Watching calves take their first steps.
The quiet mornings with only birdsong breaking the silence.
Evenings at the pub where Mrs. Wilcox would save my usual seat by the fire.
" His voice softens. "In a village of just 200 souls, you're never truly alone. You have close friends and neighbors everywhere you look. When I wanted to be alone, I retreated to my home on Uncle Thomas’ farm. When I wanted company, I showed up at places - the pub, the square, various private celebrations that everybody in the village was invited to.” He glances up.
"Though I suppose a proper therapist might have been wise. I'll concede that point."
Asher's forehead creases, and I catch his unspoken concern.
The rural English life gave Dad a serenity we never witnessed in our childhood home.
Now he's back amid honking horns and crowded sidewalks, stripped of the community that steadied him.
If he couldn't stay sober in his pastoral haven, what chance does he have here, with city stress pressing in from all sides and an ocean between him and his support system?
Ash finally just nods. “Okay. I guess…”
I place my hand on Ash's shoulder. "I get it. You won't slam the door in Dad's face, but you're not exactly rolling out the welcome mat either. Same with Ansel. Just... take it slow. One step at a time. The more we rally around him, the better his chances of staying sober."
Silas swirls his wine, eyes fixed on the crimson whirlpool in his glass.
His expression gives nothing away—never has.
He possesses Asher's intellect but with both feet planted firmly in reality where his twin brother's head remains in the clouds.
His jaw tightens before he exhales. "Okay," he announces, scanning the faces around the table—all of us who've tentatively sided with Dad against Roman.
I can already tell he's choosing Roman's island of exile over our mainland of forgiveness.
"I'm with Roman. I'm not ready to forgive yet.
" We collectively groan while someone mutters "et tu, Silas," but he just shrugs, corner of his mouth lifting.
"I'm not from Missouri, Dad, but you still need to show me. "
Classic Silas—thirty-something going on fifty with his dad humor. Dad meets his gaze and nods. "I understand," he says quietly. "And I hope to earn your trust."
My eyes drift to Roman, who's leaning against the wall with arms crossed.
When our gazes meet, he rolls his eyes dramatically.
Progress, I suppose—at least he's not glaring at Dad anymore like he's plotting his murder.
I mentally count where everyone stands: Cameron, Kalen, Connor and myself firmly backing Dad; Ash and Ansel cautiously neutral; and Roman...
well, Roman's still a hard no. But even concrete cracks eventually. Silas, too, is a no, but not a hard one like Roman. He’s willing to see where things lead.
Could've gone worse.
Later that night, I'm back at Celeste's place—her territory, not mine, at least until she wears my ring for real—and we're tangled in her sheets, our bodies still trembling from three sessions of sex that left us breathless, speechless, and clinging to each other like survivors of some beautiful disaster.
Her eyes lock onto mine, blazing with something I've never seen before.
"The way you took control today," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulder, "your brothers all looked to you—their baby brother—and you didn't flinch.
You're going to save Michael when no one else could. "
I press my lips against her forehead, tasting salt.
"You saved him first," I say, my voice breaking.
"What you did for my father—" I crush my mouth against hers, desperate, drowning.
I can't stop touching her, can't bear a millimeter of space between us after nearly losing her forever.
"My brothers will worship you for it. I already do. I love you, Celeste. God, I love you."
"I love you," she gasps against my lips. Then we make love again, clinging to each other like we're falling from a great height. When we finally collapse, her heartbeat thunders against mine, and I know with absolute certainty—this is what I was born for.