If I’d made different choices last night, I’d be with my wife right now… not hiding from her in my parents’ backyard.
The words slip out before I can swallow them. “What if she can’t forgive me?”
Dad doesn’t hesitate. “That,” he says, “has to be her choice.”
My throat closes up. The idea of looking Lorelie in the eye and telling her what almost happened makes my stomach twist hard enough to hurt.
“I should… I should go home,” I say weakly.
But I don’t move. My pulse is hammering, my palms are sweating, and every version of Lore’s face, angry, disappointed, devastated, flashes through my head until I feel sick.
Dad watches me quietly. He’s never been a man who needs a long speech to understand fear when he sees it.
Finally, he clears his throat. “You don’t have to tell her this very moment.”
I nod my head, ashamed.
“Alright,” he says simply, pushing himself up with a grunt. “Then help me with this castle.”
I look at him, startled. “Dad?”
“I’m serious.” He hands me a plank of wood and a drill. “You’re no good to anyone pacing around like a caged animal. Get your hands busy. Reset your brain.”
I stare at the tools in my hands.
He’s right. I’m nowhere near ready to drive home and face what I’ve done.
Dad kneels back down beside the half-built wooden structure and nudges it with his finger. “Come on. The drawbridge is crooked and Milo’ll notice. Kid sees everything.”
Despite everything tearing me apart inside, a weak smile pulls at my mouth.
I crouch beside him.
“Good,” Dad mutters. “Now drill here. And don’t screw it up. This is going next to my cucumbers.”
I spend the rest of the morning helping him finish the castle. At one point, I drag a lawn chair over beside us and tell him to just sit and tell me what to do. He tries to argue, but it’s taking him a full minute just to get up from the grass, and I can see the perspiration gathering at his forehead.
The castle doesn’t look half bad when we’re done. A little crooked, a little heavy on one side, but Milo will lose his mind over it.
“What about paint?” I ask.
Dad waves me off. “Later. You’ve procrastinated enough.”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s nearly time to pick up Milo.”
It isn’t. It’s barely noon. Milo isn’t out until three.
Dad shakes his head, seeing straight through me. “I’m gonna take a nap and then I’ll pick him up.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a sharp look that reminds me of the drill sergeant who raised us. The man who never tolerated excuses, hesitation, or cowardice.
“You go home, Patrick.”
The words land like a command. And like a sentence.
Home.
Where Lorelie is. And where I get to break my wife’s heart.
