Myeyesflutteropento bright light coming in through the window, sun bouncing off the piles of snow outside. The only thing I hear is Ty’s breathing and that is significant. This is the first time I’ve woken up on my own, with no alarm set, in I don’t know how long. I’m typically running around on five hours of sleep, trying to get the things done I didn’t get to the day before, or the day before that.
It feels good to slow down. Feels even better with my back pressed up to Tyson’s front, his bare chest covering my back, his arm thrown over top of me. Last night, we stayed up late playing games and drinking wine with everyone at the house. It’s one of my favorite nights of the year and it didn’t disappoint. This morning, we’ll get up, get ready and head to the house for our week-early Thanksgiving.
I stretch my legs, rolling my ankles, the weight of the snowy walk to the cabin hitting my muscles. Well, that plusTyson. I smirk and blush, only to myself, thinking about the things he said, the way hehadme, the way hetouchedme. He grabbed hold of all the insecurities of not feeling feminine enough and balled them up, throwing them further than I can see. That’s one of the things I’m most surprised by.
Slowly, I move to my back, turning and watching him. His thick lashes almost dust his cheeks—it’s a crime for a man to have lashes that beautiful, to be honest—and his shoulders rise and fall with his breaths. His darkchocolate locks are messy from a night of sleep and I resist putting my hands in it—I love playing with his hair.
This is really happening. And it feels big. Monumental. Potentially life changing. I’m convinced we both care too much to lose our friendship and that’s what I’m holding on to. What I’m hoping for.
I need to tell him about my dad calling. Give him all the details. I need someone to be on my side. When I called my brothers, they had their own reactions and feelings to deal with. It was my experience but carried serious implications for the rest of my family. They asked me to go through the conversation, start to finish, at least three times. Asked me to check the phone log for how long we talked for. Asked for his number, as they made their own decisions on what to do next.
They asked for a lot and I get it—it’s not something you expect or plan for. They were trying to absorb but also recalling their own lifelong pit of despair and disappointment. We argued about whether or not to tell our mom, and that’s when I ended the call.
I was hoping for support. For listening. For them to tell me how awful it was that this happened to me, in this way, but they couldn’t do it. Not that I blame them for it, but I’m not equipped to handle this on my own. But the thought of getting into it with anyone else felt like it could almost crush me.
Something else became abundantly clear: I’m still horrible at asking for help. I was practically in crisis mode, but still had everything taken care of at the gym, showed up for practice like I was supposed to, and put on the happiest face I could. Well, unless you count my almost breakdown with Zack. There are days when it feels like I have to look at my schedule and cut it up into all these pieces in order to get everything done, do everything I committed to completing.
I was getting by with slivers, not even pieces, and the weight of everything was invisible but there every time I tried to take a breath. Tried to sortmyself out. Tried to mentally reset. It was pushing me further down the hill, the one I was trying to climb. And I can feel it, on the edge of myself, waiting for its next opportunity.
If there’s someone who can help lift me through this, it’s Tyson. Also, why is it that I’m in bed with one of the most gorgeous men, thinking about our incredible day together, and my mind immediately wanders to something awful?
Like he knows I was thinking about him, Tyson’s eyes slowly open. When his lips stretch into a full-blown grin when he sees me, I’m an absolute goner. How does he do that? Make me feel this great with only a look, a simple reaction.
“Morning,” he says while pulling me closer.
I smile back. “Morning.”
“How long have you been up?”
“Just a few minutes.” I scratch my nails up and down the arm that rests on top of me.
Tyson’s eyes look like they’re cataloging my features. He smirks and asks, “Want me to make some coffee?”
“No, not yet.”
“Woah, you’re turning down coffee. Is everything okay?”
I take in a long breath, my chest rising pushing against the weight of Tyson’s arm. “I want to tell you about my dad.”
Tyson slowly sits up, rearranging the pillows against the headboard, propping him up. I do the same as he says, “Okay.” He reaches for my hand, squeezing it tight.
And I tell him everything. Every detail from the call. All the things I thought of. The way I was in my car and aimlessly drove. How I slept two hours before the game. Telling my brothers. He doesn’t interrupt once, even when I know he wants to. His lips press together when I get to thehardest parts to say, try to explain, communicate. Tyson holds my hands when I cry, the silent tears unstoppable like a reflex.
I don’t know how long we sit there for, me cracking my chest open for someone else to see, trying to get them to understand something that is so far from their experience, but he doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t tell me I already said something if I’m being repetitive, he truly lets me take all the time I need.
Feeling like I’ve said it all, I let out a breath, shaking my head, like I could lose the tears this way, and say, “That’s it. That’s what happened.”
He shakes his head, looking at me, before using a thumb to brush the tears off my cheek. “I don’t understand how someone could do that. A parent. A father. But you know what? He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve to know you, call you his daughter, cheer you on from afar. He really doesn’t.”
I let my chin fall to my chest, listening to Tyson’s words and trying to keep them straight. His fingers lightly push my chin back up, turning my face towards him, and his eyes lock to mine.
“He. Doesn’t. Deserve. You. And you owe him nothing, not even a conversation. I’m sorry he put you in that position… to take something that wasn’t fucking his.”
These words feel like they’re being spoken into my bones, like they’re part of me. That’s how convincing Tyson is.
I nod and wipe the tears that continue to fall with the back of my hand.
“I think the worst part was how I used to think about what it’d be like to reconnect with him. The man that was supposed to love me first. Love me forever. I always thought it’d be noble, and apologetic, and like… enough for me to forgive him for missing out on everything. But it was as selfish as the day he left. If he couldn’t stay or come back, why would anyone else?”
