“You couldn’t have stopped what happened to her any more than you could have stopped what happened to your sister. You were a little boy, Waylon. You couldn’t stop a car,” he says.
“I was her big brother. I was supposed to be watching her.”
He sighs. “And I was her daddy. My sole job as a father was to protect you two. Sometimes, bad shit just happens, and it’s out of our control, son.”
“You were angry with me. You blamed me.”
He shakes his head. “No. I blamed myself. I was angry with myself. And I lashed out at everyone. The whole damn world. And you were just caught in the wake. I’m so sorry, Waylon. It wasn’t your fault. And Freya’s death isn’t your fault either.”
I stand here, as a grown-ass man, and weep into my father’s chest.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. She deserves a better daddy than me.”
“It’s okay, son. You’ve been a father for what, twelve weeks? I’ve been one for twenty-five years, and all I do is mess up. It’s a learning process. You do the best you can. Work hard. Put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Protect ’em. Teach ’em right from wrong. Love ’em with all you have. And know when to let go and get out of their way. Then when you realize that you’ve failed at half of those things, you have to forgive yourself and pray like hell they’ll forgive you too one day.”
Caison lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck.”
Pop drops his arms, and we both turn to look at him.
“Now I’m terrified of becoming a dad.”
“Probably not the best meeting for you to sit in on,” Pop declares.
“No shit,” I mumble.
I’m still angry at the unfairness of it all, but I feel a weight lift, too, as I look at my father. Really look at him for the first time in forever. I regret the years of suffering we’ve lived through, but I’m more terrified that my little girl will endure the same.
I can’t let that happen.
Icancel my last lesson of the day, telling my client I’ve got a scheduling issue and we’ll pick it back up next week. It’s a lie, but it’s an easy one, and she doesn’t question it. I don’t even feel bad. I just feel … wired. Nervous. Something I don’t feel very often.
I go inside early and take my time in the shower, shampooing my hair twice because I know he likes the scent of jasmine. I shave my legs. I even use the good conditioner. I stand under the spray longer than I need to, letting the water hit my shoulders while my mind races.
He said seven.
I get out, wrap myself in a towel, and for a ridiculous moment, I just stand there in front of the mirror, staring at my own face.
I’m an idiot.
Charli knocks on my door not long after, already holding a curling iron. “You ready?”
“No.”
She gives me a look.
I sigh. “Fine.”
She comes in and gets to work, sectioning my hair, curling it in loose waves that fall over my shoulders. We don’t talk about Waylon. Not really. We talk about Ruby’s last lesson, about Matty’s nausea, about how Harleigh texted both of us, asking if we miss her.
When she’s done, she turns me toward the mirror. My hair looks soft and shiny.
“You look hot as shit,” Charli says.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
“Have fun tonight,” she says as she gathers her tools. “And do everything that I would do.”
