Chapter 23 #2
His deep, brown eyes twinkle, a look of pure bewilderment crossing his face.
It hits me then that I haven’t mentioned his mom to him in God knows how long.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my own personal torture that I forgot to tell him it was okay to talk about the person who used to love him unconditionally
“I think so too.” He beams, his focus returning to the LEGOs with a new kind of lightness.
I watch Alex’s small hands snap a gray brick into place, his brow furrowed in that same intense concentration I’ve seen on Emily’s face a thousand times.
The weight in my chest shifts, and the guilt rolls in.
I’ve spent years keeping Charlotte’s name locked behind my own walls, a secret I kept even from her own son.
I told myself it was to protect him, but that was a lie.
It was to protect me.
Talking about her meant acknowledging the divorce papers that had been sitting on the bedside table when she took that final, fatal turn. It meant admitting we were over long before the monitor flatlined.
I’ve been so twisted up in the bitterness of how we ended that I forgot she was the woman who gave me the boy sitting in front of me. I’ve let my pride turn her into a ghost instead of a memory, and seeing Alex’s bewilderment at her name being mentioned makes me realize how much I’ve robbed him of.
“Emily had a good idea the other day,” I say, trying to brighten my tone.
Alex looks up. “What was it?”
“She said…she said we should find a nice photo of your mom. Put it up in the living room. Somewhere where we can see it every day.”
Alex’s face softens. There’s genuine hope in his eyes. “I like that idea. Emily always has the best ideas.”
“She sure does, buddy,” I murmur.
“Looks like fun.” My dad’s voice rumbles from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, watching us with an expression that’s far too knowing. I’ve no doubt he’s been listening to the entire conversation.
“How about you head to the kitchen, Alex. Mary made cookies yesterday. Get some milk while you’re at it.”
“Okay, Grandpa!” Alex scrambles to his feet, darting past Dad and down the hall.
The silence that follows is loaded. I don’t look up from the LEGOs I’m twirling between my fingers, but I can feel Dad’s stare. It’s the kind of silence that usually precedes a lecture I don’t want to hear.
“The kid sees what’s right in front of your face, Wyatt,” Dad says, his voice uncompromising. “And you’re too stubborn and proud to see it yourself.”
I stiffen, my fingers tighten around a tiny plastic window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen how you look at her. Hell, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, despite that persistent scowl you keep plastered on your face. You need to start being honest with yourself, son.”
I finally look up, the mask slipping for just a second. His words tighten around me, crushing the air out of my lungs. But there’s little point in deflecting. The whole world can see right through me at this point.
“I’m terrified, Dad,” I finally admit before I can shove it down again. “I’m terrified of what I’m feeling.”
He hitches his chin toward the window, out toward the sun that’s risen here without her.
“Then ask yourself this,” he says, his eyes boring into mine.
“Are you more scared of how you’re feeling right now…
or are you more scared of what would happen if she didn’t come back for another twenty-three years? ”
That stings.
The sudden cold realization is lodged somewhere between my heart and my brain. Another twenty-three years? The thought of it feels like a punch to the gut. My lungs tighten as I start to face the idea of another two decades without her.
I look down at the LEGO set that’s half finished.
My hands are shaking despite how hot I feel right now.
I feel a violent surge of adrenaline as I think about the divorce papers on Charlotte’s bedside.
I think about the way I let pride rot my insides while the woman I actually love gives everything for a family that barely deserved her.
I’m done. I’m so goddamn done with being the stoic Miller man everybody’s gotten used to.
“Wyatt?” Dad asks.
I don’t answer. I stand so fast the leather chair skids back against the floorboards. I don’t grab a jacket. I don’t even grab a bag. I just move.
“Where are you going?”
“Oregon,” I growl, already halfway down the hall.
As I storm through the kitchen archway, I’m confronted with Alex, who’s carefully pouring himself a glass of milk. He catches my urgency, his small face startling as he splashes some of the liquid onto the counter.
“Dad?” he asks, his brows furrowing.
“Change of plans, bud,” I say, raking my hands through my hair. My whole body is vibrating frantically. “I…uh…I need to go help Emily pack up the house. Make sure she gets home okay.”
It’s a lie, but the effect is instantaneous. Alex’s face lights up like I’ve just told him it’s Christmas. “Wait there! Don’t move!”
He sets the bottle of milk down quickly, leaving the fridge door wide open as he bolts from the room. I check my watch, my boot tapping impatiently on the hardwood. If I don't leave now, the sun will be down before I hit the state line.
A few seconds later, he comes charging back into the kitchen, skidding on his socks. He’s breathless, clutching a half-crumpled piece of paper in his hands.
“Dad,” he pants, thrusting the paper toward me. “Can you give her this? I made it this morning. It’ll stop her from being sad.”
I take it from him carefully, my own hands starting to tremble. When I turn it over, the air leaves my lungs in a painful rush. He’s drawn what looks like himself and Emily standing next to her bright blue Mini, but it’s the third figure that knocks the legs out from under me.
Standing right next to Emily, his hand overlapping hers, is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cowboy hat—Me.
My heart slams painfully against my ribs. I’ve spent months trying to keep Emily at arm's length to protect this kid, and all this time, he’s been drawing me right into the center of her world. When I look up, Alex is wearing a smile so wide I fear his face might split.
“You’ll give it to her?” he asks.
“Yeah, bud. I’ll give it to her.” I nod frantically.
Why the fuck have I been so stupid?
I’ve been drowning in my own misery, using Alex as an excuse for my own fear, while he’s been waiting for me to catch up to what he already knew. He loves her. And God help me, so do I. He needs us to be a family.
I fold the paper with shaking fingers and tuck it into my breast pocket, right over my heart.
I reach out, grabbing him and pulling him into a hard, sudden hug. I kiss the top of his head. “She’s going to love it, son. You’re going to see her real soon. I promise.”
I burst through the kitchen door, the morning sunlight hitting my face. The gravel crunches under my boots as I sprint toward the Ford. My mind is a blur of every time I pushed her away, every time I let her face fall when I should have been pulling her into my chest.
I climb into the truck and roar the engine to life, the vibrations rattling my teeth.
I don’t care about the roads. I don't care how long it’s going to take to get there.
I don’t care if I have to break every speed limit to find her.
I don’t even care that I’m probably going to look like a madman showing up on her father’s doorstep in the middle of the night.
I put the truck in gear and spray gravel as I race frantically out of the yard. I’m not losing her again, not after too many decades of what-ifs.
I reach for my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I hit her name. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I pull back. No. This isn’t a phone call. This is a thousand miles of Montana road and a reckoning that’s twenty-three years overdue.
Fuck the grief. Fuck the past.
My son and I deserve better.
I’m going to Oregon.