The steady cadence of his voice—instructional and unwavering, never raised—brought me back to our conversations as an adolescent. The same man who’d known me since I was a shy, withdrawn twelve-year-old...and had never once invited me to call him by his given name.
“If you’d like me to speak to Hannah and Decker about granting you time to see Lyndsey, I would be willing to do so.”
My gaze sharpened at the offer. It was a carrot dangling at the end of a string, a cruel suggestion in an attempt to assuage his own guilt.
But at what cost? Upheaval for Lyndsey? Trauma for me? Hannah was undoubtedly selfish, but she was also right. That little girl didn’t remember me, and having a weird uncle show up at her birthday parties would only confuse her. It would keep the pieces of my broken heart jagged. Lyndsey was never mine, and she never would be. I was grateful for the time I got to spend with her, a very short year of my life.
It wasn’tallHannah’s fault. When she left, I should have been braver and fought harder for the part of my family I did love. But I’d been too busy being a martyr and taking the fall.
I hadn’t spoken since we’d sat down. I realized I didn’t owe the reverend anything. I didn’t need to reassure him, alleviate his guilt, or accept whatever too-little, too-late apology he was peddling. The Prices had no problem disregarding me over the years.
But that wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to be. Revenge and vindication weren’t the standards I lived by.
“I appreciate the offer,” I finally replied. “But I don’t want to confuse Lyndsey or try to make a place for myself in her life when it would only serve my own purpose. She has a father now, and that”—I cleared the emotion from my voice—“was all I ever wanted for her in the first place.”
“You’re a good man, Mark.”
That’s what it looks like when a real man takes care of his family.
I didn’t point out that it was that standard for masculinity that he’d thrown in my face yesterday, back when he thought I was a deadbeat.
When I remained quiet, Reverend Price stood. He didn’t hold out a hand to shake or offer any more platitudes, but he did hold my gaze and assert, “There won’t be any further problems from my flock. I’ll see to that.”
Problems. What a way to describe harassment and cruelty.Flock, too, seemed too tame for the kinds of people he guided from the pulpit.
I rose and nodded before making my way to the door.
The man left as quietly as he came. He’d never been the type for dramatics, just quiet resolve and unyielding expectation. And he wasn’t a part of my life anymore.
Perhaps there had been a time when the Prices were my family. But their love and affection always had a price tag.
I thought of Amy Judd and her kind face and knowing smile. Nick on the back of a tractor, a supportive slap on the back. A seat at their table and a welcome at the farmhouse whenever I wanted it. Holidays, birthdays, and Tupperwareslipped into my hand at the end of the night. No questions or judgment about my failed marriage. Joan gripping my shoulder and threatening revenge on judgy neighbors. Brady and a trivia night text message for as long as I could remember.
For years I’d had a prime example of how acceptance worked in a loving family. No qualifiers, no hoops to jump through. The Judds worked together and loved together and supported one another every step of the way, whether it be a home-cooked meal, or tough love and a blanket on the back porch. It was support that spanned time and space. It was a welcome home and a surprise pickup from the airport after seven years away. Their kind of love was limitless and unconditional.
I just hadn’t realized I’d been included in it all along.
As I stood in the center of my living room and contemplated the family I’d been blessed with, I felt cool air blow in from the back door. I’d left it cracked for the cat in case he had buyer’s remorse and panicked, thinking he’d been trapped inside.
My gaze cut to the couch, sure the long-haired beast would be long gone, but there he was, still curled up on the soft cushion, as if he’d always been there—like that particular spot was already his.
A moment later, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I smiled down at the text message on the screen before casting another glance over to the sleeping feline.
With the device clutched in my hand, I thought it might be time for me to be brave too. It wasn’t too late to change your plans, to live a new sort of life, one that was bigger and louder than what the voice in your head told you that you deserved.
So I typed out three letters and hit send before I could change my mind.
Trailview Brewing was packed that night.
People crowded around wooden picnic tables, locals and leafers alike. Tourists might not be in Kirby Falls for the autumn leaves, but they were content to travel, seeking the small-town holiday experience just as readily. With Christmasonly two weeks away and plenty of events planned between now and then, the leafers wouldn’t let up until after the new year.
I slipped through the crowd on my way to the bar as old, lingering anxiety made itself known. I caught myself scanning faces and bracing for impact. Then I told myself to fight my fears and fight for the life I wanted—one that was open and free and whatever I wanted it to be.
I forced a slow inhale and kept walking to place my order.
With the cold weather, the brewery had lowered the sides of the clear canopy enclosure and cranked the heaters up. I wouldn’t need the heavyweight winter jacket I wore once I got settled.
With a glass of Trailview’s brown ale in one hand, I skirted the edge of the trivia host’s table and looked for Brady among the masses.
