Page 62 of Can’t Say No

Hell, I even love that stupid choir trip every year.

I don’t want to split my focus between teaching and something that doesn’t bring me fulfillment or joy. As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t want to save the orchard.

And with that admission comes a realization that settles heavy in my chest: If I don’t save it, no one will.

By the time I pull into my dad’s driveway, the sun has nearly set, my head is throbbing, and the pit in my stomach has morphed into a black hole threatening to swallow me whole.

“Hey, dad,” I holler out as I push through the front door of his townhome.

The lights are low, the glow from a floor lamp casting a strange shadow around him in his recliner. It’s probably just the lights playing tricks on me, but he looks gaunt in a way that sends my stomach flipping.

The urgency of his text combined with the frail figure before me sends me spiraling into a familiar state of panic.

“Are you okay? Did you have a scan today? What did the doctor say?”

Before he can reply, I’m by his side, flipping on the overhead light so I can better assess the situation. Pulse is steady. Breathing, not labored. Temperature appears normal to the touch. I check through the vitals automatically because it’s muscle memory at this point.

For years, this was my everyday life. Watching for signs of life after seeing my dad too close to death too many times.

He swats my hands away, “Relax, I’m fine. No scans until next month. I’m just tired.”

I sink back onto my heels, a shaky breath escaping me.

Relax.

What a small, impossible word.

I’ve been on high alert since the day I found him passed out between rows of Pink Ladies and Jonnagolds. I don’t think I’ve relaxed since.

I ease into the overstuffed chair beside him. “What’d you need to talk about then?”

My dad leans forward, slim shoulders rounding, and suddenly it’s hard to see the strong, sharp-edged man who raised me. As widowed, single father to three little kids, he ran a tight ship. Loving, but firm. We all knew better than to step too far out of line.

But the man sitting in front of me looks soft. Fragile, almost.

“I know you don’t care about the orchard.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he raises a hand to silence me.

“I know you don’t. But son, you need to get your head out of your ass and do what’s right.”

And there he is.

There’s no missing the harsh bite in his voice. The subtle lift of his chin. He’s laid down the law and left no room for disagreement.

“I…” I turn the same argument over in my mind, searching for a different angle. “It’s not that I don’t care,” I say carefully. “But I don’t have the same passion for it like you do. Maybe it’s time we consider selling it?”

Those last two words come out strained, and I brace for impact.

My dad straightens in his chair, hurt flashing across his aging features. “That’s not an option, and you know it.” He sighs, disappointment and anger filling the space between us.

I throw my hands in the air, unable to contain my frustration.

“And why not? I get offers all the time, good offers. Enough money to set you up for life, with some leftover. We’re barely breaking even. It’s day by day, dad, if we’re actually gonna turn a profit or not.”

He scowls at me, unimpressed. “I don’t care about the money.”

“Well what do you care about? Because it sure as hell isn’t me and my happiness!” I shout, startling my dad.