“You scared us,” my father said. “Everyone is out looking for you.”
I blinked with surprise and looked to my father when he came up beside me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to tell anyone I was going out. I never have to do it in New York; I guess I forgot.”
My father sent out a text on his phone, pocketed it, then sighed and slid his arm around my shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
I felt bad, but since I’d already apologised, I remained quiet.
“Since we’re alone, I want to tell you something that I should have told you years ago.”
I blinked. “Okay.”
“I’m so sorry for what I said to you the day you told us you were leaving. I should have never said it, and I didn’t mean it. I’ve regretted it for years but was too stubborn to admit it.”
I wasn’t surprised at my father’s apology. I knew what he’d said was out of hurt and anger.
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I forgave you the moment you said it.”
My father’s shoulders sagged a little. “I’ve missed you, my love.”
I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. “I’ve missed you too, Dad. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but I have. I just . . . it’s very hard to be here.”
“I know, sweetie, I know.”
Did he really? my mind whispered.
I glanced at him. “You do?”
“Of course.” He nodded. “You think Kale got off easy for driving you out of the country?”
That caused me to stare blankly at him.
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, my eyes wide with curiosity.
My father grinned. “It means I knocked around a man who is like my son.”
I gasped in alarm. “You didn’t!”
My father shrugged. “Only for a little bit, but I stopped myself before anything serious happened.”
I shook my head. “You hitting Kale is serious.”
“Your moving away because of him was a lot more serious,” he countered.
I looked back down at the earth before me. “It’s complicated, Dad.”
“Love always is,” he said.
I forced a smile. “And don’t I know it.”
My father squeezed my shoulder. “I told him I was sorry – don’t worry.”
“When?” I asked.
He hummed. “About six weeks ago.”
I widened my eyes and pressed my hand over my mouth. “Are you being serious?”
“No,” my father chuckled as I dropped my hand to my side. “I apologised about six months later. It was very hard for me to forgive him. You’re my daughter, and to know you left home partly because of him really hurt me. I hated him for a while because of it.”
My laughter dried up, but my eyes grew damp.
“I didn’t want anybody to hate anyone,” I whispered, and licked my dry lips.
My father exhaled. “I know that, but sometimes emotions can’t be tamed, as you know.”
I knew that very well, so I nodded.
“He was very forgiving when I did eventually say sorry,” my father continued. “He actually judged me for apologising at all. He said he deserved the beating I gave him and more.”
That, again, surprised me.
“So why didn’t you beat him further that day?” I quizzed.
My father was silent for a moment and then said, “Because he did a good enough job of beating himself up about it. Everything about his life changed after you left.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” my dad replied instantly. “You don’t want to know, but you’re going to have to know in order to understand how things are with him now.”
That scared me.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
My father was silent for a long time, but he eventually took me by the arm and led me away from my aunt’s grave. “Come with me, my sweetheart,” he said softly. “I want to show you someone.”
He wants to show me someone in a graveyard?
We walked slowly, passing by grave after grave, me holding my hand in his.
“Where are we going?” I asked as I scanned the dark cemetery, feeling goosebumps rise on my arms.
“You’ll see,” my father replied solemnly.
I nodded and nervously gnawed on my lower lip.
“Can you talk to me as we walk? I’m suddenly scared to be here,” I admitted.
My father tightened his hold on me. “Don’t be scared. I have you.”
“I know,” I said, “but I want to listen to you talk. I’ve missed your voice.”
My father chuckled. “Your mother would laugh hearing you say that. She offered to pay me one hundred quid to shut up last week. She gets sick of listening to me talk.”
My lip twitched. “She just pretends she does.”
“She’s a cracking actress if that’s the case,” my father stated.
My laughter filled the dark space of the graveyard, and I stopped just as quickly as I started. It felt wrong to laugh so loud in a place where many were resting.
“What is New York like?” my father asked, completely catching me off guard.
I glanced around. “It’s not right to say this in a graveyard, but it’s alive. Pulsing with life, day and night. It never stops.”
My father glanced at me. “It sounds exciting.”
It wasn’t.
“It can be,” I murmured. “I don’t get out much, though, if I’m being honest. The constant activity isn’t for me. I like the peace I find in my apartment and my books. New York isn’t exactly my ideal place to live, never mind grow old.”
I knew I shouldn’t have revealed that bit of information to my father, but it felt nice to finally say it out loud and know it was honest truth and not a fabricated lie to please others. Roman thought I loved New York, but that was only because when I was with him, I shared in his zest for life. He didn’t know that when I was on my own I sometimes wished I wouldn’t wake up when I went to sleep.
“Why not move someplace else then?” my father asked, scanning our surroundings as we walked.
I noticed he didn’t mention I should move back to York.
I shrugged. “It seems pointless to move somewhere else, I feel the way I feel because I’m sad, Dad. The environment I’m in won’t change how I feel.”
He nodded in agreement, then said, “No, but you can change how you feel.”
Here we go, I inwardly sighed.
I smiled a little. “I can’t change how I feel until I resolve why I feel the way I feel.”
“Ah, I see.” My dad smiled too. “If that’s the case, then when are you moving back home?”
I pulled on my father’s hand and stopped us walking.
“What?” I asked him, and fully turned in his direction.
My father raised his eyebrows at me. “Your problem started at home. You can’t fix it anywhere but here because your problem is rooted here . . . He lives here.”
I groaned. “Why can’t you just tell me to get over it and move on from Kale?”
“Why should I repeat what you’ve told yourself a million times before? It won’t change how you feel.”
I glared at my father. “When did you become so philosophical?”
“The day you left me.”
I froze. My father’s reply was instant, and it gutted me.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I breathed.
He frowned at me. “I know you are.”
I leaned in and placed my head on his chest. “Being here is really difficult.”
He put his arms around me and kissed the crown of my head. “I know, honey, but deep down you knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”
I sighed and mimicked my father, putting my arms around him. “Staying away – that was my plan.”
“Until Harry?”
I nodded against my father’s chest. “Until Harry.”