“Well, yeah.” I think back to our conversation during the drive here. “But that’s only becauseyou’vemade all these assumptions. About me and my father, even though I’m the one who’s known him my whole life. You think I owe him something, after all that happened when I was a kid—”
“You were anadultwhen your father was sick. And the reason I know that is becauseIwas there while it was happening. I was there during his treatment, his surgery, and you weren’t. It’s not an assumption. It’s a fact.”
He sounds so sure, so confident. It makes me want to shove the truth in his face. That my father never told me he was sick.
Only it’s not quite the trump card I think it is. Because if my dad had told me, if I had known about the surgery, would I have traveled all the way here for it? Maybe. If I’d understood the severity of it. But I don’t know the answer for sure.
Unbidden, I see my father’s face at the wedding. The way he stared out at the parking lot, lost and confused, after Maggie raced out.
I feel a twinge beneath my sternum.
“No, I wasn’t there,” I say calmly. “And you can’t imagine any circumstances under which that would make sense. A world where that might be acceptable.”
“I—” He hesitates. A long pause, and then his voice hardens. “I can’t imagine having the chance to be there and just choosingnotto be. You can’t be that callous—”
I gather my new clothes in a bundle and step outside. “You don’t know me.”
“And you don’t know how bad it got. How close your father was to—” He lets out a sound of frustration. When he steps out of his changing room, his brows are drawn, his face tight. “I know I—I have a history with this. It’s personal to me, and maybe I’m taking it all too personally.”
I thaw slightly. “I can understand that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “But I don’t—I don’t understandyou.”
“And you don’t care to.”
“No. It’s not—” He shifts his weight, holding a stack of shirts neatly folded between his hands. “Whatever happens, you’re leaving tomorrow. So, I don’t—” He looks away abruptly. “What would be the point?”
I blink and take a step back. “Yeah,” I say. “No. That makes sense.”
We’re strangers. We don’t know each other, and we don’t need to. I don’t know why I’ve been pushing at him, what I’ve been trying to get at.
And I don’t know why his words, words I don’t disagree with, hurt. Maybe it’s because I’ve been holding on to that stranger I met in the bar, hoping for another night like that. A night where I can share and be held and feel understood. But that version of Jacob doesn’t exist anymore. At least, not for me.
I tighten my hold on my clothes and offer him a bland smile. “I guess we’ll just stay out of each other’s way, then.”
His forehead creases, but I simply move around him, not waiting for his response.
—
When we get back to the car, Jacob offers my father the front seat, but he declines.
“You get carsick in the back,” my father says.
“Not carsick, really,” Jacob replies, his voice quiet.
“Right,” my father says. “I just know you prefer the front. And I don’t mind sitting in the back. I could drive, actually, if you want, Neelu?”
I’m surprised by the offer. He sounds better this morning, though, well-rested, and there’s an optimistic note in his voice.
“If you’re sure…” I say, and my father takes the keys from me.
“Positive,” he says.
It takes us a few minutes to leave Inverness. We pass buildings that look old, castle-like structures with pointed turrets. And we travel across a bridge over a large stretch of water that I now know is the River Ness.
I take in the view, enjoying not being behind the wheel for a change. “Any news from the hotel in Skye?”
“Not yet,” Jacob says.
