“Sounds good,” I say, walking toward the front door to let him out.
“Oh, don’t forget, I have to leave early tomorrow to get Hannah to Connecticut after school.”
“I have it on the schedule,” he says, waving over his head. “Love you, son.”
“Love you, Dad,” I reply, shutting the door as he closes himself into his truck.
I debate whether I should veg out and watch TV for a bit before bed, but I’ll end up waking up on the couch in the morning if I do that.
I check on Hannah, finding her asleep, shockingly, so I give her a kiss on the forehead and straighten the covers over her back. She still looks like a little girl when she’s asleep. I thought it was hard when she was younger. I did not understand what was to come or how fresh she’d be, but she sure is cute. “Love you, peanut,” I whisper.
My divorce with Kristy was quick because it scared me to think about putting Hannah through what Pete went through. His parents’ divorce spanned across a two-year period. They were fighting on who got what and who was to blame. They went through months of mediation, and Pete was never even an afterthought for either of them, which I don’t understand. Still, to this day, I don’t get it.
I debated whether I should fight to keep my marriage together, which would mean turning my head to the fact that Kristy cheated on me and confessed her lack of love for our family. What was healthier? It was a horrible choice that I wanted to believe was mine, but it never was. Kristy decided for all of us and all I could do and will always do is to pick up the pieces and give Hannah what she deserves; a normal life. The thought of her ending up like Pete haunts me as I lay in the dark each night waiting for sleep to rescue me. It was my sole reason for fighting for full custody. I can watch her and make sure she’s always okay—something I’m sure Kristy wouldn’t do.
With slow, sluggish steps, I go through the process of getting myself ready for bed. The last thing I do before turning off the lamp is check my phone for an explanation, but there aren’t any missed calls or texts. There is no explanation for me.
“I’ll be at pick-up a few minutes early today so if you can try to get out the front door quickly after the bell, we might have a chance of missing some rush hour traffic,” I tell Hannah as she hops out of the truck.
“No problem,” she says.
“You sure everything is your bag? We aren’t going home after school.”
“Yes, Dad. I packed everything last night. I’m all set.”
“Okay. Have a good day, sweetie. I love you.”
Hannah stares at me for a long second—longer than she usually stares at me when I tell her I love her. More often than not this past year, her response has been a mumble in the wind as she runs off. “I love you too. Are you okay?”
“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hannah’s eyes widen. “You look like you didn’t sleep. Just asking.”
“You look beautiful too, sweetie. Have a great day.”
The eye roll comes and goes, followed by the charming sound of a door slamming. It’s like my second cup of coffee every morning. Who needs caffeine when a door slams in my face at the same time each day?
As usual, the back lot of the warehouse is empty this early in the day, but at the current moment, I think I’d prefer people to be around to get my mind off things. It is as it is, though.
I grab my backpack and head for the door, spotting something white shoved in the crevice between the brick and metal. We have a mailbox out front. Anyone who delivers shit to us knows where the box is located.
I grab the folded paper out of the crack and unlock the door. Once I flip the lights on and toss my stuff down in the back, I turn the folded paper over. There’s nothing written on the outside, nor is it taped or stapled shut.
What the—? I unfold the note even though mail usually goes to Dad, but something tells me this isn’t mail.
It’s a handwritten note. Haven’t seen one of these in a while.
Hey Brody,
I owe you an apology for what I did last night. I realize I could have sent you a text or called, but I opted for the most complicated form of communication because that’s what I do. I wasn’t thinking straight when I walked away. I wasn’t thinking about you when I should have been. I was selfishly thinking about myself, my life—my existence. The thought that you might be forcing yourself into my life because you think I need someone made me feel too many things, things that I try to avoid. I didn’t know what to say or how to respond, so I ran. I’m good at that, I guess.
I don’t want you to worry about me or think that I’m someone who needs your help. I think it’s commendable that you try to be there for someone who needs a person like you in their life, but that’s not who I am.
Maybe I misunderstood and you really don’t see me as a broken being. Maybe I’m not a project. I don’t know, but I want you to know you don’t have to be concerned about me. I’m good.
Thank you for the pizza last night and for showing up when I ditched you. Also, thank you for not being a typical guy and telling me to move over so you could fix my flat tire. I like to handle things myself.
Anyway, I’m sorry for the way I acted and if you want to talk more about Pete, I’m happy to listen and I promise not to run away again. I guess we’ve all been through some stuff that changes who we are and reroutes the paths we thought we were going to take. Unfortunately, I get it—more than I care to admit.
