I don’t want to hang on to this burden. It’s only weighing me and my mind down.
They smile. “And what about Hector? Do you think you could find a way to offer a truthful apology to him?”
“Of course,” I say without hesitation. One has been forming for days, though I know it will wither away with time in my notebook. He has no interest in hearing from me. “But him accepting it? That’s another story entirely.”
“Apologies aren’t always about acceptance,” Josiah offers. “Can you elaborate on this fear of rejection?”
“What I said was callous and kind of unforgivable.”
Josiah exhales. “Would you say what your mom did was also quite callous and unforgivable?”
“Maybe,” I say, confused by the string of logic.
“Okay, so by that token, if you could come around to the idea of forgiving her,” Josiah says, about to rock my world with therapeutic reasoning, “don’t you think Hector could do the same?”
I consider this from all its angles, and for the first time since leaving Wind River, the light spectacular spangled throughout my chest buzzes back on. “Do you really believe that’s true?” I ask, allowing hope to visit me once more.
“There’s only one way to know for sure.”
***
Returning to my apartment the next day is a shock to the system.
Christmas has yet to be packed away; garland still gleams on the mantel, and ornaments are still hanging from the going-brittle tree. I let myself believe, if just for a second, that none of the bad stuff transpired.
Footfalls snap me back, and that’s for the best. Fantasy doesn’t hold water when Mom and Dad enter the family room with Sarah Pearson, my erstwhile nemesis, not far behind.
While I’m still not feeling the warm fuzzies when it comes to any of them, if I’m going to make amends the right way, I’m going to need their help. It’s the least they can supply when they tipped my life into utter turmoil.
Granted, I did that to their lives first with my frivolity—I see that clearly now—so I’ve prepared a proper apology.
The assembled perch themselves across from me, all on a strict time crunch. Dad needs to return to the office—he rarely takes lunch breaks as it is, the workflow never letting up. Mom has an important meeting about her musical later today. The fact that they both took my request seriously and showed up—punctually even—is a wonder that I’m thankful for.
Sarah crosses her legs on the couch, tablet at the ready, eyes sharp like I’ve inconvenienced her. Like she hasn’t been inconveniencing me my whole life.
I clear my throat and set my coffee down. Oksana has laid out a spread. Her presence in the kitchen radiates an aura of support. Whichever way this goes, I know someone will be there to comfort me unconditionally.
“Thank you all for coming. I won’t take up too much of your time. However, I want to start by apologizing.” I wait for Dad to interject about how apologies show weakness, and Princes are too strong for that. The way he remains silent lets me know he’s here to listen. And he’s only checked his watch once since sitting down, so score for me.
“I’m sorry for lashing out and buying the island. It was selfish. The music festival I wanted to throw there was about me creating something that set me apart from the two of you.” Everyone shifts slightly at that. I had a feeling they would. We never discuss the massive shadow they cast over me and my life. “I’ve never not known this spotlight, and the truth is I’ve never quite known what to do with it. So I abused it, and abusing it for so long got me into a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll say,” Sarah mutters. It’s clear she thinks it’s funny, and I’m more than satisfied when no one laughs.
Ignoring her crack, I say, “It was wrong of me in every conceivable way. I know you had to work hard to fix another of my big mistakes. All those actions came from a scared, defensive place of panic.” I hope my word choice makes clear to Mom that we frequent the same shadowy corners of our minds. The chemicals a little funky and the decision-making centers a little out of sorts, but that’s okay. That’s our normal.
“That’s very mature of you, Matthew,” Mom says. Her tic is turned up all the way, fingers tugging on the edge of her blouse.
I can’t go back and be kinder, gentler, and more understanding with her, but I can make a choice to do that going forward. “While my apology holds, it doesn’t negate the fact that you all hurt me. Deeply. Even if I understand why you did it, my feelings are valid, and I need you to acknowledge that.”
Dad bristles in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. I wish frank discussions didn’t make him prickly—evidenced by his red neck and the sheen of sweat across his forehead. If we’d talk about my mental health more openly, or at all, really, we wouldn’t be this on edge sharing our feelings.
“Acknowledged,” Mom says.
“Ditto,” Dad adds warily. A notification chimes in on his phone. He ignores it. That earns a smile. If he were anyone else, it wouldn’t. But he’s him, and I’m going to learn to accept that.
Just as I hope they can learn to accept me. Hidden parts too.
“Good, because…I have a generalized anxiety disorder. I know you all know this. Maybe in less certain, less clinical terms, but for some reason we don’t talk about it,” I say, allowing my pent-up frustration to roll through my sternum and pass. “I’m not ashamed of it—not anymore, anyway—and I don’t want it to be some big secret hanging over me.”
