Only myself. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. Can we talk about this?”
“Not tonight,” he says. “I need time to think and sleep this off. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I really am sorry.”
I hear him sigh. “Me too. Good night, Lindsey.”
The line goes dead, but I cradle the phone to my chest as though doing so might keep our connection alive a moment longer. As though somehow, he will feel my remorse through this little rectangle.
I allow myself to fall against the mattress and curl my legs against my chest. How did I let this get so messed up? I was trying to keep him from seeing me like this. Because what if it’s too much?
What ifI’mtoo much?
There’s only one person I want to talk to right now, but he’s also the only person I can’t reach. I wish heaven had cell reception because I’d give anything to hear my father’s voice. For him to tell me everything will be okay. Instead, I settle for the next best thing. I get up and tiptoe to my mother’s home office next door where she keeps the family photo albums.
Stretching on my toes, I run my fingers along the tops of the built-in shelves until I feel the soft leather of the one I’m searching for. I pull down the photo album, hugging it to my chest as I carry it back to my bed.
The binding cracks slightly when I open it, and my breath catches in my throat. On the first page is a collage of pictures from when I was a little girl. In the first, I’m sitting on my dad’s shoulders with fistfuls of his hair clutched in my hands while he watches TV. In another, Dad is asleep on the couch, holding a baby Lucy. Then he’s in a rocking chair, reading to me and a diaper-clad Ben. We’re snuggled into his arms, back when we believed no harm could come to us as long as Dad was around. Somehow, we never considered that harm could come to him.
I suck in a breath and turn the page, taking in memory after beautiful memory. Like that summer when I was eleven, when a hummingbird flew into the back door so hard, it stunned itself. Dad scooped the little guy up, running his finger along the bird’sbelly. Mom snapped a picture of me watching him, my eyes wide with wonder, the moment before the tiny creature flew away. I thought my father must be magic. And to me, he was.
By the time I get to the last page, tears are dripping onto the thin plastic sheets protecting each memory. I swipe my thumb over the portrait of my dad on the funeral program tucked inside the back of the book. It still knocks the wind out of me every time I see it.
I shut the album and lay it beside me before crawling under the covers, bringing my knees to my chest. My shoulders shake, and my breath comes in shuddered gasps. I weep for my father. For the lessons he hadn’t gotten around to teaching me yet. For the little girl locked inside that photo album, who doesn’t know what it means yet to have a broken heart. And for me, the woman who does.
I sense movement beside me,and it startles me awake.
“I’m sorry, honey,” my mother says softly. “I was heading to bed when I noticed your light still on. I was going to turn it off, but I saw the album and thought I better move it so you wouldn’t roll over on it in your sleep.”
“Oh.” I nod and rub at my puffy eyes as I sit up.. Catrick Swayze’s warmth is tucked against my hip.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?” Mom faces me as she sits on the edge of the bed, lightly scratching the cat’s head. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head. “I’ve ruined it.”
“Ruined what?” she asks.
I sniffle. “Everything with Oliver. I messed it all up.”
She places a gentle hand over my arm. “I can’t imagine that’s true. He’s crazy about you. I’m sure whatever happened is a misunderstanding.”
“It’s not,” I insist. “I know it’s not because I lied to him.”
“What?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “How? Why?”
She listens as I explain the events from the day, including the stupid cover story I made up that exploded in my face.
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth to start with? I can’t imagine Oliver being upset over something like this.”
“I know,” I say, raking my hands down my face. “He’s wonderful. Hell, he probably would’ve sentmea care package onhisbirthday if he knew. But that’s the thing. We just started dating. I don’t want to drag him down or be this huge burden on his shoulders. This should be fun. Especially this early in the game. He should see me as happy and fun and carefree.”
“You arenota burden,” she says. “And if he or anyone else thinks that, they’re not someone you want in your life. But I don’t think Oliver will feel that way. You should talk to him, sweetie. If you tell him what you’ve told me, I truly believe he’ll understand.”
I shrug. “I tried. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, and I can’t say I blame him. He caught me in a blatant lie, Mom. The reason I did it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. You were scared. That’s all,” she says, cupping my face in her hands. “Your illness is a deeply personal part of you, and it’s not something you share with everyone. Anyone worth their salt will get that.”
I swipe the moisture from beneath my eyes, then reach for the album on the bed, running my fingers along the binding. “I miss Dad.”
