Her blue eyes soften with empathy. It pierces my chest in a way I don’t like. My hand goes to where the ache lives and I rub my chest as if it’ll help. I’m sure it won’t.
“Yes,” she insists gently, “I did.”
Silence stretches between us. I have no idea how to fill it. From the look on Meadow’s face, she doesn’t either.
I clench my hands at my sides because I want to reach for her. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I want the comfort I have no doubt she could provide. I’m craving it, but it would be totally inappropriate for me to take it. Of course, that’s if she was even willing to offer it.
Fuck, I miss Grandpa.
Grief flares in my chest and my knees weaken. I hate that I need to stand tall, to accept the condolences of everyone who has shown up to help lay him to rest. Part of me wants to crawl in that hole right along with him.
What the fuck am I going to do now?
How can I live up to the lessons he taught me?
Will I be able to take our family farm and make it into something more?
Meadow reaches for me and places her hand on my forearm. The contact burns through my skin and I focus back on her, her touch pulling me out of the darkness of my spiraling mind. Again.
“If you need anything, please call me, Rook,” she murmurs.
I’ve been given these words over and over again today, but this is the first time I believe them. If only I could take her up on it; I won’t.
“Thank you, Meadow,” my voice is rough as I push the words past my lips.
She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. The contact is brief, but it stuns me and leaves me stymied for a moment. Before I even realize what just happened, Meadow has slipped away. I don’t even try to tear my eyes away from her retreating form, swallowing down my desire to call out after her.
I don’t want her to leave. But she’s gone.
When I turn around and take a few deep breaths, I try to stuff down the emotions attempting to overtake me. Instead of finding a moment of peace as I wallow in the grief that keeps hitting me in waves, my eyes lock on my father.
My fucking father.
The same man who dropped me on my grandparent’s doorstep and only showed back up when it was convenient for him, or there was something to gain. I’m not even sure how he knows about Grandpa’s death. He certainly didn’t show up when we laid his mother to rest.
But he’s here now.
I’m frozen in place as I watch him. He looks around with begrudging pride on his face. When he sees me looking at him, he flashes me a smarmy as fuck smile.
While he’s making his way toward me, I picture slugging him when he’s close enough. I don’t.
But it’s not easy to hold myself back.
When he’s close enough that I won’t cause too much of a scene, I hiss, “What are you doing here?”
He tries to look innocent, but I know better. “I’m just here to pay my respects,” he tries to explain.
The problem is that I learned a long time ago that if my father’s mouth is moving then he’s telling lies. It was a lesson learned the hard way; one I’ve never forgotten.
“I don’t believe you,” I snarl the words. “You only care about yourself. You sure as fuck never cared about your parents.”
I want to say more, to remind him that he never showed up when we buried Grandma. But I don’t want to show him that much emotion. It would only fuel him and his bullshit.
“You never know,” he smirks, “I might be back for my birthright.”
My words are filled with shock, “Your birthright?” My lip curls up in disgust. “You don’t care about the farm. You only care about you.” When I glance around, I notice some people glancing our way. The last thing I want to do is shine the spotlight on this deadbeat. My voice is hard, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Without caring whether he has something to say, I turn and walk away. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of this day, but I refuse to give my father any more attention.
