“Nah,” Doug scowls briefly. “She’s got me on this bullshit organic, gluten-free diet. She reads too much online. Thinks she’s gonna cure my cancer by cutting out free radicals and carbohydrates. The damage is done though.”
“You could have asked Corentin,” Tom suggests, but Doug shrugs. Now that he’s sitting, Tom can see the effort each movement is taking his father. He can clearly see the small flickers of pain that cross his face, the slight shake to his hand and the paper-thin quality of his skin. He sounds like his father, but he looks like a broken, dying man. Tom feels a deep stab of pain, which he does his best to keep hidden.
“I could,” Doug replies, “but we all know how that would have gone. Always in cahoots with your mom, that kid.”
“I’ll get your whisky,” Tom promises. “Might even have a glass myself.”
“You don’t drink whisky. Especially not my whisky.”
“I don’t know. It feels like a good time to start,” Tom replies, trying to keep his voice light, but his father peers at him, looking concerned.
“What’s going on, kid?”
“Nothing,” Tom lies. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Yeah, right,” Doug says bluntly, “you’re just back from your mysterious years-long European vacation, you’re sitting by the side of a dying old man, and you’ve got heartbreak written all over your face.”
“Heartbreak? Of course my heart is broken. My father is the dying old man in your story,” Tom reminds him, but Doug sees through his words almost at once.
“Who was she?”
Tom’s stomach drops. “I don’t know what you—”
“Cut the crap, kid. Of course you do. Corentin said you’d been travelling with a woman in Europe.”
Tom presses his lips together. He’d only made it through his transatlantic flight, and then his journey home, by blocking Ari from his mind. It hurt deep inside him whenever he thought about her. He’d heard people talk about aching for someone, and always scoffed at the idea. How could you ache for someone? How could your body physically respond to an emotional event? How was that possible?
He’d learned quickly just how possible it was. From the moment he’d turned his back on Ari, from the moment he’d given her that final kiss, his body had begun to ache. It was worse than the most awful stomach ache and worse than the most awful headache. He couldn’t eat and couldn’t sleep. He was functioning on auto-pilot, hardly aware of his course or surroundings. He was a shell of a man. He ached everywhere, and every pain was for Ari.
“There was a woman,” Tom replies softly. “There is a woman,” he corrects himself. “I love her.”
“Ah.” Doug nods, and Tom sees recognition in his eyes. His father was young once, Tom reminds himself. “What about that girlfriend of yours... What was her name? The one from school?”
“Sasha,” Tom says, but the name feels wrong on his lips. “She’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore. I ended it with her before I left for Europe.”
Doug sighs. “Sasha. That’s it. Pretty thing. But she’s not the woman you’re in love with, right? There’s someone else?”
“Yeah. There’s someone else.”
“Good,” Doug replies, and the grin is back. “Sasha’s pretty, but she’s missing a spark. You need the spark, Tom. Always go for the girl with the spark. I’ve been in love twice in my whole damn life, and both times, the girls had spark.”
“Two times?” Tom asks, raising an eyebrow. “Does Mom know?”
Doug grins again. “Yeah. She knows everything about everyone, especially me.”
“Who was the first girl?”
Tom watches as his father shifts his head on his pillow. He looks almost wistful as he relives his youth. “Girl named Yvonne. Childhood sweetheart of mine... a bit like you and that Sasha girl. But she had a bit of spark. She had a bit of fire. She had a zest for life and living and we had a hell of a time together.”
Surprisingly, Tom feels a dart of betrayal for his mother.
“Why didn’t you end up with this Yvonne then?” he asks, his voice a little sharp, and he hears his father give a laugh.
“Because I met your mom. Just one look at her and I knew she was the right woman for me. You know your mom and I have had our problems, but she’s always the one. Always has been, always will be.”
Something inside of Tom softens, and he squeezes his father’s hand once more.
“Tell me about this woman of yours. The one in Europe,” his father asks, and Tom gives a bitter smile.
