Chapter 42
After our mutual confession last week, I worried things would change between Micah and me.
But surprisingly—and thankfully—things stay almost exactly the same.
We are both busy, trying to catch up on our college work and training before classes resume.
It doesn't leave a lot of time for this new us, though every evening I’m looking forward to falling into bed together and cuddling up, occasionally spending a few minutes talking before we fall asleep.
However, one big difference is that we no longer hide from our roommates. Telling them was extremely anticlimactic: Olli wasn't there, Vince already knew, Sasha merely raised her brows, so it was only Marisol who gave the appropriate wide-eyed-big-gasp reaction.
“God, the one summer I'm not here and everything happens!” She lamented afterward, shaking her head, and totally forgot to ask embarrassing questions, which I'm still grateful for.
Like my dad promised, he and Mom arrived in Bonham in their big pickup truck a week after the party. It dwarfs Olli’s Chevy as Dad slowly inches into our driveway. We should have asked where his keys were before his parents whisked him away to New York.
My stomach is in knots as I step outside onto our porch to greet them.
The first instinct is to run toward my parents and hug them like a homesick kid getting picked up from summer camp.
But quietly, I'm embarrassed about my outburst on the phone.
In the light of the late afternoon, it feels ridiculous that I was so distraught when I wasn't even the one who got hurt.
I'm supposed to be an adult, having all this independence, and still, I needed my dad to tell me what to do.
And he simply did that.
And calmed me down, no questions asked.
Even though the last time we saw each other, I exploded at him and then stormed off like a sulky teenager. All that is what keeps me firmly on the porch, unsure of how to act, caught between two separate versions of me.
“Did you get through traffic okay?” I ask once Dad has gotten out of the car.
“Was alright,” he huffs, crossing the driveway and taking the steps up the porch two at a time. “It’s so good to see you, son,” he mutters, clapping one heavy hand down on my shoulder.
The scratch in his voice makes me swallow hard, feeling the same tightness in my throat.
“You too, Dad,” I rasp out, then, almost at the same time, we pull each other into a hug.
“I'm so sorry!” I manage, at the same time as my dad rumbles out, “Don't you scare me like that again.”
“Oh, my dramatic men.” Mom chuckles behind us, but a moment later, her arms wrap around me, too.
There's more I need to say, but not right away. After we all let go of the embrace, I show my parents inside and introduce them to Sasha, who's on her way out, and to Marisol, who makes coffee for everyone while happily chatting about her studies.
Dad wastes no time wandering into the backyard, always on the lookout for something to do. I leave him to it and pull my mom upstairs to show her my plant collection.
“If you'd like, you could stay here?” I offer my mom as she's giving special attention to my little olive tree.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re in the hotel with the lakeside view,” Mom says proudly, and I struggle to bite back a grin.
There are dozens of hotels near the shore, and I guess the look out over Lake Champlain is something people come to Bonham for.
Not just to make sure their college student son isn't having a panic attack.
“You really gave us a fright,” she says as if reading my mind. “And I don't just mean calling in the middle of the night. Storming out and then not texting or calling for so long?” She takes a deep breath, then shakes her head. “I hope you're planning on talking to your father about it?”
I duck my head but nod. “Of course. And…and you too.”
“Oh?”
I nod again, opening and closing my mouth a few times. I don’t have the words for it yet, and Mom seems to understand. She plucks a yellowing leaf from the olive tree, worrying it between her thumb and forefinger.
“Alright, we’ll talk about it later. Let me find your father before he starts renovating your shed.” She winks at me, then reaches for my shoulder, holding on for a moment. “You should probably find a sunnier spot for this one.”
I chuckle, clearing my throat when the sound is just a bit shaky. “Yeah, I know.”
After I carried the little tree downstairs, I drag my parents outside for a walk.
I feel antsy, and it’s unavoidable to talk about what I’ve been putting off, but I don’t want to do so at the dining table of the Nook, feeling exposed to any of my roommates who might come back home.
I’d love for Micah to be there, but it’s not like I can lock out all the others.
In the end, this is a conversation I need to have with my parents. We don't make it very far into the forest path that starts at the end of our cul-de-sac before I take a deep breath, hoping to ease into the conversation rather than cannonball into it.
“I…I wanted to talk to you. About my studies. And apologize for how I behaved when I left.”
The trees wrap around us, quiet and non-judgmental. I've slowed down now that we have gotten somewhat cut off from the houses just beyond the tree line.
Dad briefly looks at Mom but then nods, a silent acknowledgment of the need for conversation, letting me take the lead in this, for which I'm glad. There's a lot I feel like I need to get out.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I start, glad that we’re walking and I can look elsewhere.
Being honest about my feelings and why I hid my change in major from my parents feels like peeling back the layers of myself, and I’m once again on the brink of tears.
“Especially you, Dad. I didn’t want to make you feel like…
like I thought badly of what you did. Or that I didn’t like the work.
I do. I just…I’d miss taking care of animals.
Figuring out their problems, seeing them improve—or working harder to get there.
I like helping, but I don’t…cherries don’t get sick like that. ”
I can feel my dad’s eyes brush the side of my face, but I don’t turn. It’s easier to tell this to the surrounding trees as we slowly pass along under their canopy.
“I could do it, but sitting there after having just finished one harvest and already planning the next when the fruit isn’t even processed or sold, I just—I'm afraid it’d make me hate all of it.
” I shake my head. “All of that just piled up until I felt all this…pressure, I couldn’t—I love the farm; it'll always be my home. I admire you and Mom for running it like you do, but I couldn’t do that.
And I'm so scared that if I tried, I’d become…
resentful.” I gasp in a breath too quickly and then another, having to stop myself by holding both of them in and then exhaling as slowly as possible before I breathe in again.
“I'm sorry that I never talked to you about it.” That is the one thing I do regret. Not changing my major or coming here to study, but never talking to my parents about how their plans and visions for the future weren't my own.
“You know, your grandpa never asked either, but it was…I always wanted the farm. Wanted to keep the family business. I…I assumed it was what you’d want too.
That you’d feel as proud as I did when you finally got to take over.
I’m…” Dad clears his throat, and I swallow thickly.
It’s harder than it should be to keep looking away, but he granted me the privacy I needed when I welled up, so I do the same.
I guess we Woodrow men really are stubborn mules, just like Mom said.
“I’m sorry I made you feel pressured instead of…mh…like you could talk to me about having second thoughts.”
“It’s okay,” I choke out, sniffling when Dad drapes a heavy arm over my shoulders.
“I did feel proud you’d trust me with all of it.
But also…it felt so much like—like you were constantly saying goodbye?
It was so soon after the accident, a-and I already didn't want it, and with everything else that happened, it made me want it even less.”
Despite the serious topic, my dad lets out a rough chuckle.
“Ah, kids, they'll always rebel in ways you didn't think of when rebelling against your own parents,” he says and reaches up to ruffle my hair.
“You rebelled against Grandpa?”
“I’m not going to give you any ideas.”
For several minutes, we walk along in silence until Dad speaks up again. “It won't always be about helping as a vet. You know that, right?”
I can't fault my dad for pointing that out. It's his way of looking out for me and making sure I'm not going into my choices with rose-tinted glasses. “I know.”
“And it won't only be kittens and puppies.”
I chuckle at that. “I actually want to specialize in livestock animals. So no kittens and puppies at all, and”—I duck my head, pulling up my shoulders—“I could also check in at home.”
For a moment, my dad doesn’t say anything; then his hand squeezes my shoulder. He clears his throat. “Well, son, you got it all figured out, hm?”
I snort. “I try.”
The air between us feels settled, allowing more of the forest’s atmosphere to break through. Under the trees, it’s cool, the dappled light throwing bright spots here and there, highlighting the small flowers that are hiding in patches of moss at the base of the trees.
Mom stops to take some pictures that I'm sure will pop up in her status this evening. Dad watches her with a quiet smile, taking a picture of her taking a picture, before he turns to walk along again, though I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eyes.
“So, how’s Micah?”
I can’t help but smile, heat climbing into my cheeks as if it only waited for that moment. My dad laughs, prompting a soft huff as I try to rub the pink from my cheeks.
“Ah, I see.” He chuckles, veering to the side to nudge me. For a moment, we’re both quiet, only the birds chirping overhead.
“And you’re sure that this is what you want? I mean”—he scratches his neck—“I could’ve been more tactful about it, and he’s a good egg, but…he will get a lot of attention in the NFL. And not have a whole lot of time.”
“There’s still some time until his graduation and the combine,” I say, then take a deep breath.
“And I still have to do my residency and certification. Until then, I won’t have much time either.
But yeah, we talked about that. He’s worried too, and we know it’ll be hard, but until then, we want to take the time together.
And after that…who knows?” I chew on my bottom lip, my ears warming up.
I’m glad I haven’t had to have the boyfriend talk with my parents before, because heaven knows how I’d have lived through this at fifteen when the mere mention of it makes my whole face flush and burn with embarrassment even at twenty-three. At least now I feel certain about my own feelings.
“We want to try. I trust him. And…” I pull up my shoulders, clearing my throat again. “I love him.”
“Oh, I'm so glad!” Mom smiles and gives me a hug. “I knew it. He was so smitten.”
“Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, Kells.” Dad's still frowning, tilting his head until I nod.
“He…yeah. Too.” It's all I manage, hoping it explains it all.
“See, you old grump, I told you so,” Mom says, clearly satisfied, linking her arm through mine.
“Hmpf…sounds like I should have a chat with that boy.”
“Dad!” I groan, looking at him over my shoulder, horrified. I thought when I came out that automatically excluded me from those awkward conversations I caught only glimpses of: Dad sitting each of my sisters’ boyfriends down before they went to prom or other such occasions.
“What? Have to make sure he treats you right! Mr. Hot-Shot-Tight-End doesn't get a pass just because he helped out with the harvest.”
“You know his actual position? Dad!” I laugh, shaking my head. Clearly, I didn't pay enough attention to just how fond my father grew of my…my boyfriend.
The word sinks through my chest into my core. Not like a shocking revelation, more like a comfortable chair to settle into. Comforting and familiar.
“Now, let's see that shelter, and then maybe we could make dinner for you, Micah, and your roommates? Can't have you all living off of pizza and takeaway,” Mom chatters, her other arm now also hooked into Dad's, keeping us together like a linked chain.
“Micah makes sure we don’t, but I bet he’d love a break from cooking,” I hum, tilting my face into the sunbeams falling through the leaves.
I may not have it all figured out, but I have a roadmap forward. And I'll try my hardest to fit all the important pieces in there—my family, my studies, and Micah.