“Thanks for calling me, son,” my dad tells Dominic as they shake hands. He’s always called him son, but that doesn’t stop the word from sounding like a betrayal.
That’s the problem with Dominic—everyone likes him, especially my family.
“Of course, Jack.” Dominic nods at him, giving him the level of respect a soldier would give his superior, without all the formalities.
I can’t even begin to explain how much I hate this entire situation. More than the pee, and I really, really hate the pee.
“We should go.” My voice is overly-cheerful.
“How are your folks?” my dad asks Dominic, ignoring me.
Did he not hear me say we should leave?
I expect an animated, long-winded answer and instead, an eerie quiet settles, my dad waiting expectantly and Dominic falling silent.
Going against all my instincts, I risk a glance at Dominic, and my stomach plummets the moment our eyes lock.
His expression is pained, hands twisted, eyes hollow. Every single facet stealing more of my breath the longer he goes without speaking.
Something is wrong.
A tightness grabs hold of my chest, and my body tenses as a knot forms, rolling up my throat. Whatever he has to say, it’s not good.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“My mom’s doing okay,” he says, with his eyes firmly fixed on me while speaking around the audible catch in his voice.
A gulping breath escapes me at the same moment the pieces fall together.
His dad.
A man I loved like a father.
My head is already shaking, refusing to accept the words I know are coming. I want to hit rewind, retreat into the blissful ignorance I had just moments ago.
Dominic clears his throat, an obvious mask to conceal his emotions. “My dad passed in January. Heart attack.” It comes out strained, like it physically pains him to say it. And maybe it does, becausehearingit hurts. It hurts everywhere, all at once, a thousand pinpricks, jabbing over and over again. Survivable, yet torturous.
Whether it’s years of ingrained instinct from knowing each other since we were kids, or the fact that neither time nor distance has dulled our connection, every fractured piece of our past reconnects for a brief moment. I have to physically hold myself back from collapsing into his chest, from burying myself in him until there’s no space left between us. Wanting to comfort him and being unable to feels like defying something written into my bones. Denying it is like trying to unlearn breathing.
“Why didn’t you call me?” The accusation flies out of my mouth before I can think to hold it back.
Dominic’s brows raise, eyes widening. I’ve shocked him—stunned him to the point that he blinks at me several times, his head rearing back slightly.
It’s too late to take it back now, as much as I wish I could.
“Ellie—I—I?—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “You don’t owe me an explanation, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
He nods, clearly not wanting to press the matter.
In different circumstances, I wouldn’t be so quick to eat my words, but I’m not such a monster I can’t admit when I’m in the wrong. Why would he call me? It’s not as if I’ve ever given any indication in the past ten years I want to hear from him.
Still, the relentless pounding of my heart against my chest leaves behind an ache—a hollow, empty void. It’s as if an unwelcome seed is trying to take root—a seed that feels a lot like regret. But my reasons for breaking up with Dominic were valid then and remain valid now. Any hint of regret is likely grief manifesting where it doesn’t belong. Letting go of Dominic meant losing his family, and after years of feeling like they were my family too, it was an entirely different kind of breakup to get over.
My dad, ever the perceptive one, saves us both from opening the Pandora’s Box that is our complicated relationship. He comes forward and wraps Dominic in the kind of hug men so rarely receive.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice is muffled as he holds Dominic, whose body has gone rigid from the unexpected affection, until it seems he’s reached the point he can no longer carry the weight of his grief. I watch as his shoulders sag, accepting the embrace.
