Chapter 32 Present
I figured sleep would come easy.
Once I got home, I’d settled in and knocked out more than I expected—drafted the outline, typed up a few solid pages, and even landed on a title I was pretty sure my editors would love.
Outside, a summer storm had rolled in and wrapped itself around the house, humming a soft lullaby through the walls.
And yet, even with the sky rumbling and the rain falling in a steady rhythm, I couldn’t quiet my thoughts.
They clung to me like the humidity—thick, persistent, impossible to escape.
I tried all the usual tricks.
Turned my pillow over to the cool side. Picked out shapes in the wallpaper—faces, animals, little stories tucked into the curls of the pattern.
I even counted the flashes of lightning between each low roll of thunder, just like I used to when I was a kid.
Still, sleep hid from me.
My mind kept drifting—between the questions I’d prepared for the interviews and whether I could actually bring myself to face the last two names on the list.
The thought of it made my stomach stir, like the storm outside my window.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out...
But the image of his face, the sound of his voice, flooded in—haunting me in the best possible way.
I thought it would fuel the battle I was already fighting for rest, but instead, a strange stillness began to settle over me.
And finally, as my breathing slowed, I drifted off to sleep.
Morning arrived, but the storm hadn’t gone anywhere.
A sharp crack of thunder jolted me awake, shaking the entire house.
Low, gray clouds loomed overhead, pressing in like a warning.
I couldn’t help but hope this wasn’t a sign of what the day had in store.
I jumped as another crash of thunder tore through the sky, loud and sudden—vibrating through me—it was pulling my thoughts back to that night in the boathouse.
No matter how many storms I’d lived through, I never quite got used to how intense they could be.
The whisper of his voice began pulling at my heart, “I thought you northern girls were supposed to be…”
I rolled out of bed before the rest of his words could settle in.
I walked downstairs, and to my surprise, it was my dad in the kitchen.
He wasn’t dancing around or putting on a show like my mom usually did, but I wasn’t complaining.
I could use a strong cup of coffee—and he never shied away from tossing in an extra scoop of grounds.
I paused for a second before walking in, but I was too tired to avoid him—
or the awkward silence that always seemed to follow when it was just the two of us.
He sat at the table, reading the paper, a half-eaten slice of orange resting in his hand.
I cleared my throat—a subtle hint to let him know I was there.
He didn’t look up, but I saw the way he shifted in his seat, straightening up just slightly.
His eyes stayed on the page, but the small adjustment didn’t go unnoticed.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low and even.
“Morning,” I echoed, stepping fully into the kitchen.
The silence that followed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable—just familiar.
He and I had never been great at conversation without someone else to soften the edges.
He dropped the paper as he gave a small nod towards the coffee pot.
“Just finished brewing.”
“Thanks,” I said, already reaching for a mug. The scent hit me first—strong, exactly how I needed it.
I poured a cup and leaned against the counter, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
I inhaled the steam, and with the first sip hitting my lips, I already felt more awake.
I walked over to the table and took the seat across from him.
At first, he kept reading—or at least pretended to—but eventually, he fully acknowledged my presence at the table, and folded the paper, laying it neatly on the table.
I took another sip, then finally broke the silence.
“Mmm. Good coffee,” I said, letting out a sudden yawn.
“It’s exactly what I needed after the night I just had.”
He finished off the slice of orange he’d been holding and, with a genuine effort to make small talk, nodded in agreement.
“Yeah... you must get that from me. Storm kept me up too.”
He stood and walked over to the counter to pour himself a cup.
As the sky lit up with a flash of lightning, he glanced toward the window.
“And it doesn’t look like it’s moving out any time soon.”
I let out a frustrated sigh, accepting the truth in his words.
“I hate going out in this mess,” I said, glancing toward the rain-streaked window.
“But I’ve still got a couple more interviews to finish before I can call it done around here.
“I know you and Mom are really looking forward to having your house back to normal.” I added, only half-joking.
But he didn’t laugh.
In fact, he winced—just slightly, but enough for me to notice.
I wasn’t sure if it was because I mentioned Mom, or because I brought up leaving.
Either way, something I said struck a nerve.
A perfectly timed crash of thunder shook the house.
Gesturing toward the bedroom upstairs, he tried to shift the conversation.
“I don’t know how your mother sleeps through this,” he said, forcing a small smile.
I shrugged. “It’s soothing to some.”
A flash of lightning lit up the window, and I jumped.
“Clearly, I’m not one of those people.”
He nodded, a quiet laugh escaping as he finished a sip of coffee.
“Clearly,” he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little.
The laughter drifted away, and suddenly the air felt thick.
He looked down at his cup, turning it slowly in his hands, as if searching for something at the bottom. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped — it almost sounded broken.
“I owe you an apology, Bri.”
The words sucked the air from my lungs.
I didn’t say anything. Just waited —
He took a breath, like it hurt.
“I messed up. Back then. With your mom. With you. All of it.”
The silence stretched, heavy and waiting. He kept his eyes on his hands.
“You shouldn’t have had to carry that secret.”
He paused, trying to steady his voice.
“That wasn’t yours to keep. I—I put you in that position, and I’ve regretted it every day since.” He paused for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
His voice continuing to crack, “I’m not gonna sit here and try to explain why I did what I did. I don’t even think I fully understand it myself. But I know it hurt you both. And I’ll carry that guilt forever.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on the handle—tears began to fill his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I thought I had reasons, back then. Thought I could justify it. But none of it matters — not really. Whatever your mom was going through... I should’ve been there to help her through it, not run from it.”
He finally looked at me. Eyes heavy.
“I’m so sorry, Bristol.”
“I—” he hesitated, “I hope you can forgive me one day.”
I sat there looking at him. I wanted to say something, but everything in my mind was too complicated to pick through right now.
I’ve played out this conversation in my head for years —
my version always ended with me yelling,
telling him how disappointed I was,
how deeply he’d failed us.
But this...
this was everything I needed it to be —
and more.
I paused for a long while, trying to process everything.
Words escaped me—
but with them went the anger and resentment I’d held onto for years.
I leaned forward, placing my hand on his—
a silent gesture that spoke louder than anything I could have said.
For the first time in a long, long time,
we sat together, not as strangers,
but as two people no longer weighed down by secrets and lies.
Just a girl, having a cup of coffee with her dad.