I laugh.
Me: I'll try not to. See you soon. Love you.
Blue: Love you, too.
I pull out the ring and look at it again thinking about the future I'mabout to ask for. Ironically enough, I realize for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I'm finally standing exactly where I belong.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Blue
Two Weeks Later
It's been two weeks of quiet since I last saw my dad. Whenever his name comes up, or I glance at my phone, not sure what I'm looking for, then realize I'm searching for his funny texts or messages checking in on me, it feels strange but necessary. It's like a bone that finally healed after being broken wrong for years.
So when he shows up, standing outside my office with a coffee in his hand, it knocks the air out of my lungs.
The first thing I notice isn't the coffee. It's his face. He looks like he aged ten years in fourteen days.
The sharpness is still there, but it's dulled now, softened by lines that weren't there before. They're deep around his mouth, and exhaustion is carved beneath his eyes.
His shoulders are heavier, his posture less certain, as if the weight he's been carrying finally stopped being theoretical and became personal.
For the first time in my life, he doesn't look untouchable.
He looks human. And that terrifies me more than the man he used to be.
He cautiously asks, "Can I come in?"
My skin crawls with anxiety. I hesitate, then agree. "Okay."
"Got this for you," he says, and sets my favorite latte in front of me. It's from the little café three blocks away. The one that foams the milk just right and dusts the top with cinnamon instead of cocoa.
"Thanks." My hands stay on my desk, fingers splayed against the cool surface. The hum of the building wraps around me in that familiar workday way. It's normal, safe, and predictable, but my heart doesn't get the memo. It starts racing like I'm running for my life.
"I miss you, Blue," he offers.
I take a deep breath and admit, "I miss you too." I pick up the cup and take a sip. "Thanks for the latte."
He smiles and nods.
I wrap both hands around the cup and inhale the warm and comforting scent. Even though it's familiar, my desk suddenly feels like a boundary line. I gently ask, "What do you want to talk about, Dad?" The words feel sharp on my tongue. Fragile, like it could break him if I press too hard.
He exhales slowly, as if he'd practiced it. Then he states, "I wanted to apologize to you. Properly."
I don't interrupt. Red told me about their discussion at the office. I've wondered when he would reach out to me and try to make things right.
Dad continues, "I've already apologized to Red. It doesn't erase anything. I know that. But I need you to hear this from me directly."
My fingers tense around the cup.
"I was wrong about how I handled things. I want to think I know what is best for you simply because I'm your father, but I see that I don't," he admits.
The silence stretches. I know how hard it is for a man like him to admit he's wrong. I should start talking to make him feel comfortable, but I don't. I have to stop pretending things are fine when they aren't and deal with them in the moment. So I let the tension build, waiting for him to say more.
"I didn't see how much you were hurting," he adds, voice lower now. "And that's on me. Not you. Not Red. Me."
