“That lost feeling you had after your mom died?”
Did he... did he want to talk now?
Corrie didn’t want to miss the opportunity to help him get it out. Who knew when he might open up again.
“Yes. It gets easier. Some days are better than others. I might go weeks without feeling sad. And then I’ll be out, and something will suddenly remind me of her, and it’s like the day she died again. But those days are less frequent now. How about you? Do you miss your dad?”
Ford looked up, clearly willing himself to maintain control. He’d looked like he might cry when they’d been in the tent, but those were angry tears he’d been holding back. These tears? These ones were sad.
“I try not to,” he finally said. “I don’t want to miss him. I’m so pissed at him and the mess he left for my mom. He’s beengone for two years, though, and those feelings haven’t subsided.”
“Maybe anger is harder to let go of. Maybe if you let yourself miss him, miss those happy moments and the dad you loved, then eventually the other feelings might start to subside.”
A quick scoff escaped his throat, and this time he looked down and scratched the corner of his eye behind his glasses.Pretendedto scratch his eye, that was. He then wiped his hand across his mouth and opened wide, letting out a long exhale.
“I could use a drink. How about you?” he asked.
“What time is it?”
“Who cares?”
Hmm. He had a point. Besides, Corrie was never one to turn down a drink.
“Fine. But grab the sandwiches. We can’t go getting wasted on empty stomachs at one in the afternoon, or whatever the hell time it is.”
Ford popped into the tent, leaving Corrie while he rummaged for Lord knows what. She tossed the partially read dissertation on the platform beside her. Something told her they weren’t going to get a lot of work done today. But it didn’t seem like they were on any specific time frame, and Ford wasn’t worried about it, so whatever. She could go with the flow.
Plus, she kind of enjoyed talking with Ford, just the two of them.
After a few minutes with the sound of glass clanking inside, he returned with a bottle of booze under his arm, a mug in one hand, and the plate of sandwiches in the other.
“What’s this?” she said as he sat next to her, placing the food between them.
“Rye. My private stash,” he said, twisting the cap off thebottle of Rittenhouse and pouring it into the empty mug. “Sorry, I don’t have any glasses.”
“Can’t we grab some from the mess tent?”
“And risk Agnes’s judgy looks? It’s only one in the afternoon, Dr. Mejía. We’re working, remember?” His lip quirked up and Corrie had to laugh. First bras and now booze? They’d never hear the end of it. “Here,” he said, handing the mug to her after taking a sip.
It reminded Corrie of that night in the library. Passing the coffee back and forth. Whispering in each other’s ears.
She took the mug and downed the remaining contents.
“Easy, slugger. I thought you didn’t want to get wasted?”
“Just warming the ole windpipes,” she said.
Or, rather, she needed a little liquid encouragement.
She grabbed a sandwich and took a giant bite as he refilled the mug. “So,” she said in between bites. “Tell me more about your dad.”
He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “I see what you’re trying to do here.”
“Sorry. I thought that’s what the booze was for. Come on, Ford. Let it out. Tell me about what he was like when you were growing up.”
Much to her surprise, with a relaxing of his shoulders, Ford didn’t fight it. As if she’d given him the permission he needed to talk about it. He talked about his father’s love for archaeology, which had eventually turned into Ford’s love for archaeology. About the first dig they’d gone on together as volunteers in the southwest United States and later digs in Central America and Peru. About their tradition of going to various natural history museums throughout the United States for Ford’s birthday. Sometimes his mom had come along. Sometimes they’d go, justthe two of them. But there’d always been somewhere new to see. Someplace new to explore.
But Corrie heard the doubt in his voice. Was Ford’s love for archaeology ever truly his own? Would he have become an archaeologist were it not for his father?
