I glance at the climate controls as the light turns green.
Still set at sixty-six. Nobody turned up the heater.
But I’m sweating like I’m in a sauna.
“I’m in therapy,” he continues. “I know you don’t have to accept any of my apologies. I understand if you don’t want to. This is my fault. I was the parent. You were the kid. It wasn’t your fault I was hard on you. In a lot of ways, it wasn’t entirely my fault that I didn’t understand what I was doing, but I take responsibility for how it affected you. Full responsibility. I understand if it’s too late, but if it’s not, I want to do better.”
Full-on sauna.
I hit the button and roll my window down to get fresh air.
Sweet Pea whines in the back seat.
Pretty sure it’s not the forty-degree temps suddenly blasting in.
Not entirely, anyway.
She’s a good dog. Knows when I need a hug.
I fucking love my dog.
We make it out of downtown and onto the highway without him saying anything else.
I don’t say anything either.
What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Oh, okay. Got it. All’s good now. Let’s hug.
Not my style.
Get the fuck out of my car.
Nope. For the past twenty years, I’ve sworn I’d be the bigger man. That I wouldn’t bend and crack under his scrutiny. That I wouldn’t let him see how much he hurt me.
You’re the reason I don’t feel like I deserve to be loved. Mom loved me, and she left. Jessica loved me, and she left too. Bink loves me but lives far away and has her own life. There’s no one who loves me because you never loved me.
Goddamn fucking heat in my eyeballs now.
The twenty minutes on the highway to the airport exit are the longest fucking twenty minutes of my life. But finally—finally—we reach the terminal.
I find a spot at the curb and get out to take care of his luggage.
When I set it on the pavement, I make myself look at him. “Thanks for coming.”
I don’t mean it.
The way he winces tells me he knows it.
He takes half a step like he wants to hug me, but switches his posture and grabs his bag instead. “I don’t know how to be here for you now. But I’d like to be. So you tell me what you want. Whenever you’re ready. I won’t drop by without an invitation again. If I don’t text, it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you. It means I’m letting you drive.”
I nod.
What else am I supposed to do?
“I love you, son,” he says, and then the bastard turns and walks into the airport.
I make it two exits down the highway before I pull off and head up toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.
