Originally the plan had been to eat Christmas Eve dinner at his father and Diane’s place in Haven Point. But Kim had been unusually obstinate about her desire to host dinner for the family at her own small—albeit beautifully decorated—house.
“I would love to have it here, if you think Diane can make it up my steps,” she had told their father that morning with an unusual determination in her voice. “I don’t want you to have to do anything.”
She spoke to Doug by phone but had put the call on speaker, as her hands were busy rolling out sugar cookies. That meant Ryan had no choice but to hear the whole conversation.
“What about the steaks?” Doug had asked after a pause. “Can I still grill those? I’ve already bought them.”
“Sure. That would be great and I have a grill here you can use. I want to do everything else, though. Salad, sides, dessert. All of it. I want to do this for everyone.”
“I can make a salad or something,” their father had said.
“I won’t tell you no, but it’s totally optional. You know that feeding people is my love language. The whole time I was in rehab, I kept dreaming about having Christmas Eve here in my house. I owe everyone in the family so much. I want to do this. Please, Dad.”
After a quick conference with his wife in the background, their father had agreed.
Ryan had been sorely tempted to load up his gear and head back to San Diego tonight, but he knew that would have hurt his sister and niece. And, yes, maybe his father and stepmother, too.
So now he stood on the porch with Doug, talking about the weather and a TV show Doug and Diane were binging and the bowl games they each wanted to catch over the holidays.
He would rather be in the kitchen helping his sister but she had sent him out here, first to light the propane patio heater and then to help his father with the steaks.
He wasn’t sure if she was trying to get rid of him so she could chat with Audrey and Diane without him or because she wanted to force him to talk to their father. He suspected the latter.
“Your sister looks good, doesn’t she?” the colonel said as he turned the steaks one last time.
He was glad Kim hadn’t heard their father, as she was becoming heartily sick of that observation from those who loved her.
“She really does. But then, I hadn’t seen her in several months except for the occasional video call.”
“I did see her regularly. I don’t know how I completely missed all the signs that she was struggling with addiction again.”
“Seems like she had become pretty good at masking.”
The colonel sighed. “If I had been paying more attention, I might have seen that, but I thought she was doing fine. Notlike she was the first time she went through rehab, after that weasel of a husband went to jail. I thought that part of her life was over. I should have paid more attention to the signs and made her get help earlier.”
He could feel his jaw clench and forced his muscles to relax. “Kim is an adult,” he said, his voice clipped. “You can’tmakeher do anything. You couldn’t do it when she was a teenager after Mom died and you certainly can’t do it now.”
“Let me rephrase. If I had noticed she was struggling, I could have strongly encouraged her to get help.”
Ryan’s nails bit into his palms as he fought to keep his temper in check. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry, but it felt as if all the years of resentment and bitterness had coalesced to this moment.
“Strongly encouraged her?” he echoed, his tone sharp. “You mean the way youstrongly encouragedboth of us to bottle up our grief after Mom died?”
The colonel stiffened, a sudden bleak look in his eyes, but Ryan didn’t stop. The dam had broken.
“You were so busy playing the stoic, perfect officer that you didn’t see what was right in front of you. That we were broken. And now you want to act like you could have fixed everything with a few words of fatherly advice?”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t get to rewrite history to make yourself feel better about how you let us down. And you sure as hell don’t get to stand here now and pretend this is just another problem you could havestrongly encouragedaway.”
“I can’t win with you,” his father said, his tone resigned. “No matter what I say, it’s always the wrong thing.”
He glared. “You make me sound like some irrational hothead, unreasonably angry about my childhood and ready to take offense at the slightest thing.”
“I don’t think you’re irrational at all,” Doug said quietly. “Or unreasonable, for that matter. Everything you said is absolutely true.”
He stared at his father, certain he must have misheard. The colonel never admitted he was wrong about a single damn thing. He had always acted as if no other opinion mattered but his own.
