THIRTY-TWO Heart to Heart
“ Y ou’re quiet, Wy,” I said, rocking my shoulder into his. “I’d like you to talk to me if you can.”
I had not needed Roman to pick Wyatt up. The trip to Crescent City was about thirty miles up 101, so it was a little more than an hour, round trip. If not for choir, I wouldn’t have been able to make it, no matter how long my meeting with the sheriff took. But I had an extra ninety minutes, and the meeting itself was only about half an hour—just the lineup (which Durbin described as a ‘formality’) and an update on the case.
Over the course of the past two weeks, they had arrested all four of the hired goons. Three of them confessed, and they identified the fourth (none of the four were Finn’s ex’s brother). Then the sheriff’s ‘cyber defense team’—which looked from where I’d sat like a guy stuck in a corner of the room with some fancier computer gear than everybody else—had followed an internet trail from the site where the goons had gotten the job to the computer on which the person who’d hired them had posted the job.
Darryl Manfred’s personal laptop.
So I stood in a room, faced a two-way mirror, and pointed out number 2 as the man who’d trespassed on my property and made threats. I still didn’t understand how a lineup identification was necessary in the situation, but I wasn’t the sheriff.
Also, it was extremely satisfying to stare that man down in a lineup and point him out to a bunch of cops. Even if he couldn’t see me.
I’d expected a big reaction from Wyatt. This arrest, and the investigation that led to it, would likely resolve the insurance company’s reservations about paying out for the flood. We were back on track, back on the plan. Things were looking up—and stably so, after so long in turmoil. But my kid’s reaction to the news had been “Oh. Cool.” And then silence.
So I didn’t go straight to Roman’s. Instead I pointed the Golf toward the spot that had become Wyatt’s and my quiet place: Hidden Beach.
Now we were sitting on the sand, scrunched into our hoodies against a brisk September sea breeze, and Wyatt hadn’t said more than a handful of words since he’d climbed into the car.
In response to my latest plea, he sighed and asked, “What happens now?”
That was the kind of question you ask when things went wrong, I thought. Not when they went right. Pointing that out wouldn’t serve any purpose I could see, so I didn’t.
“Now we’ll have the money we need to keep with our plan. We get the Sea-Mist cleaned up and fixed up, and we open it again. Hopefully by next spring.”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the waves washing onto beach. A sandpiper was chasing and being chased by the foamy edge of the surf, hurrying out to poke around in the freshly washed sand before the water rolled up again.
“You seem bummed about this, bud. I thought you wanted to get the motel up and running.”
“I thought I did, too,” he finally said—and with those five words kicked a dent in my chest.
“Would you rather we sell?” I asked, working to keep my voice level. The thought of selling made my stomach hurt. I hadn’t been positive I wanted to keep the place when we’d first got here, but since then I’d been fighting for it every goddamned day. I was invested.
But I was more invested in my kid’s happiness. “Wyatt. Bud, you’ve got to talk to me. Please.”
“I don’t know how to say it.”
“Say it the way it’s in your head.”
“It’s ... I can’t, Mom. I think it’s none of my business.”
“Wyatt, I don’t understand how that can be. We’re talking about our life. You and me. Of course it’s your business.”
He finally turned and looked me in the eye. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “I might have to say something bad about Dad.”
Again, I couldn’t imagine what that could be, and I didn’t try. I hooked my arm around my son and pulled him close. He rested his head on my shoulder.
“You can say anything to me,” I told him with my lips in his hair. “I just ask that you be as kind as you can.”
“Sometimes ... sometimes it was hard to be Dad’s kid.”
Alarm bells sounded in my head, but I made sure not to react strongly or start spinning doomsday scenarios out loud. “Why?” I asked.
“I’m not like he was. I tried to love the things he loved, I wanted to go out with him as much as he’d let me, but I didn’t really like all the climbing and kayaking and stuff. It was fun sometimes, but it’s all he wanted to do, and he was really intense about it. And ... and I ... ... I don’t think he cared about what I wanted to do.”
Wyatt was a theater kid in his soul. He loved to sing and dance and perform. While he was still wearing diapers, he knew all the songs to all the Disney movies and acted them out in spectacular productions in our TV room. I’d seen the kinds of things he gravitated to and enjoyed, but I’d also believed he sincerely liked his father’s outdoor activities—maybe not equally, but substantially.
Yes, I knew Micah didn’t care about the theater stuff. Getting him to a school play had been a production of its own. I’d never faulted him for not liking what Wyatt liked; we all have preferences and tastes, and that simply wasn’t Micah’s. He hadn’t had much time for my interests, either. I adapted to that particular quirk of his.
But I’d believed he’d kept it hidden better from our kid.
“Sometimes it felt ... a little ... like Dad didn’t care that much about me unless I was doing things he liked to do.”
“Oh, Wy. He loved you. So very much. I know that for an absolutely fact. He thought you were amazing, and he was right. You are. Your dad just ... I don’t know why, but he didn’t know how to learn to like something, or even just fake-like something, because someone he loved liked it. It made him impatient.”
“I know he loved me. It just didn’t always feel like he was interested in me.”
Jesus Christ. How the fuck had I missed that?
I wrapped my son up tight and held on. “I’m sorry, bud. I should have seen that. I should have done something.”
He shook his head against my chest. “No. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t make him be different than he wanted to be. I just ... I feel so bad feeling this—”
There, my son began to weep.
“I mean, my dad’s dead , and I love him and miss him, and he’s dead , but also all I can think is Roman is so much better at dadding than he was. I think I love Roman like I loved Dad. Maybe more, and that’s so fucked up . I know it’s fucked up! It’s wrong! I suck !”
He fought to get free, and I let him. He stood up and stormed off, and I let him, sitting on the beach, watching him run away. He got as far as the first big rock in the sand, then stopped and leaned against it.
I got up and made my way back to him. My brain spun; I felt a new level of shame for all the cracks and tears in my previous ‘perfect,’ happy family. I felt guilt for not seeing my son’s need for his father to do better.
Love is necessary, but it’s not enough. There has to be interest, too, and care. Empathy. And sacrifice.
I still did not understand how all this was related to his subdued reaction to my good news about Manfred—except that I was now pretty sure it had to do with Roman.
When I got to him, I set my hand on his shoulder. He turned at once and fell into my arms again. His tears had stopped, but not his sorrow.
“Wyatt. You do not suck. You understand what you needed from your dad and didn’t get, but you still love him. That is the opposite of suck. Unconditional love does not mean uncritical love. It means loving someone even though they aren’t perfect. And Roman—it’s a good thing that he gives you what you need. You’re not shopping for a new dad. Your dad will always be your dad. You’ve just found somebody who makes you feel good and important. Which you are. Both good and important.”
“I don’t want to go back to the Sea-Mist, Mom. I want to stay with Roman.”
Oh. Wow. I didn’t know what to say, but Wyatt didn’t give me much time to think of something.
“I know it’s none of my business, if you guys are a couple or not, but I want you to be. I want us to stay with him.”
Gently, I pushed him back. With the sleeve of my hoodie, I helped him wipe his tears away.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be. I’m so glad you told me what’s worrying you.” Forming my thoughts as I selected my words, I continued, “I love Roman. And he loves me. We both love you.”
Wyatt smiled weakly, abashedly.
“And I like being at his house, too. But it’s early, bud. I don’t want to do anything recklessly. And I don’t want to put pressure on us when we’re new. Do you understand?”
“It’s too early to move in for real,” he said, looking at our feet.
“I think it probably is. It’s one thing to be staying temporarily while we have need, and something else entirely to move in for real. But that doesn’t mean Roman and I are going to break up, or that he won’t be exactly who he is in your life wherever we live. It just means that we want things to work out, and we know we need to be smart and careful so they have the best chance of working out. You understand?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” With a sigh, he added, “Do we have to move into some motel now, since the insurance will pay for it? Or can we at least stay with Roman while we work on the Sea-Mist?”
I chuckled and pulled him in for a hug. “How about we sit down, the three of us, and talk that out.”