That shouldn’t matter. Truthfully, it comes as a bit of a surprise just how much it does matter. We haven’t discussed what we are, but I know I’m having fun with her. For the first time, I think ever in my life, I want to spend more time with a woman.
My coffee has just finished brewing when my phone rings. Damn, I wish I’d had the chance to get the caffeine into my system before this conversation.
“Hello, Dad,” I say, taking the phone and my coffee over to the couch and sitting down.
“Wyatt. Did you see the latest reports from Alberta? I think we need to speed up the expansion plans in the Calgary area.”
My eyes roll upward. It’s so typical for him to skip any pleasantries with me and go straight to business. “I’m great, Dad, thanks for asking, how are you?”
My father lets out a huff of exasperation. “No need for sarcasm, son.”
When I don’t reply, he carries on. “As I was saying, we could use your presence in Alberta next week. Let’s see if we can solidify the purchase of that location you found on the west side of Calgary. If we can get the store up and running by the end of the year, I think we should. What do you think about coming home early and meeting me at the office tomorrow to get up to date on everything? We could get you on a plane to Calgary after…you know.”
After. After November 8th. After the day Ryder died. That’s what he won’t say.
I take a sip of my coffee, composing my answer in my head. Because as soon as he mentioned going to Alberta, my entire body felt like it rebelled against the idea of being anywhere but here. But I know if I let emotion fuel my response, I’ll get nowhere. “I’ve still got two weeks off, Dad.”
“Right, but you don’t have anything planned, do you? You’re just hanging out in Dogwood Cove. You could come back early, and then take the rest of your time off later in the year.”
Technically, he’s correct. But fuck that. I don’t want to leave yet. Not if I don’t absolutely have to.
“I was actually going to talk to Jacob about going down to St. Thomas and joining him for a week or so.” It’s a total lie, but it’s more believable to my Dad than me wanting to stay here. I hear my father’s muffled voice, talking to someone before he comes back to me.
“So you were never planning to come home for Ryder’s anniversary.”
Wow. I don’t think it’s possible for him to sound more disappointed in me. Thankfully, I’m used to shouldering the guilt trips. “No, Dad, I wasn’t.”
“Were you at least going to tell your mother yourself? Or would she spend another year without either of her boys.”
Well, that fucking stings.
“I’ll call her.”
Dad takes in a deep inhale, and lets it out slowly. When he speaks, the disappointment is gone from his voice, and regret is there instead. “Son, when are you going to stop punishing us and punishing yourself? Ryder’s death isn’t your fault.”
It’s a damn good thing I’m sitting down because if I were standing, I would have fallen over. That’s the first time my father has ever said those words to me.
“What…why are you saying that to me? Why now?” I croak out, dropping my head into my free hand. I can feel moisture pooling in my eyes. Goddamnit.
“Because, Wyatt, I’m your father, and I know you. You’ve been holding on to your grief, and on to some misguided guilt for too long.” His voice breaks. “And I’ve failed you by letting you carry that and not taking it away from you sooner.”
“Dad…” I mumble.
“No, listen to me. After the Westport opening, and those few days we spent with you, your mother had it out with me. I don’t know how she let it go for so long without telling me to get my head out of my ass. Honestly, she shouldn’t have had to. But I’m glad she finally did. I love you, Wyatt, and I miss you. And Ryder dying was not your fault. You are not to blame for any of it. Cancer is. That’s all.”
I want to yell at him that he’s wrong. No, I didn’t kill Ryder. I know that. But the way he died. Alone. Scared. And probably thinking I hated him. That’s on me.
But no one knows that.
No one knows that the last conversation I had with Ryder, less than an hour before he died, we got in an argument. I stormed out of the apartment we shared and got drunk at a nearby bar. He was on home hospice care, and we knew the end was coming. But he should have had a few more weeks. I should have had time to go home and apologize for being an asshole, and we should have been able to spend his last days together as a family.
Instead, a pulmonary embolism took him without warning. A side effect from one of his many medications. He died quickly, without pain, according to the doctors. Without physical pain, at least. I’ll never forget the look of frustration on his face when he yelled at me to come back as I stormed out the door. He couldn’t follow me, make me talk to him because he was confined to a bed with monitors and tubes hooked up to him.
“Look, Dad, I can’t go to Alberta next week.” Thinking quickly, I offer an alternative. “Send Rosemary instead. She’s accompanied me enough times, she can handle it. And if there’s anything she is unsure of, she knows how to reach me directly. I just…I need more time. Okay? Please?”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone. I don’t know what my dad is thinking about me suggesting he send my assistant in my place, I can only hope this new version of him, the version that seems to want me to forgive myself, is understanding of my request.
“Alright, Wyatt. If that’s what you need to do, I’ll always support you. I hope you know that. But can I ask you for something in return?”
