Page 41 of One Last Thing Before You Go

And I officially hate myself for breaking down. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Am I some fragile kid to her?

I suppress a frustrated sigh as Walter’s friends continue to tell us stories of their time together, ordering another round of drinks and pub food.

By the end of the night, Lottie decides to drive my car back home. Partly because I drove us to the convention and she thinks it’s only fair she take on the other half of the long drive home; partly because I had a couple of beers and she didn’t. Mostly, though, I think it’s because I just had an intense day, and she probably thinks I need time to process it.

The drive is quiet, for the most part. I don’t feel like talking, and Lottie doesn’t pressure me into small talk. It’s like she can read me, can tell what I need most right now. She waits patiently as I open up to her.

After we’ve been on the road for over an hour, I finally break the silence: “That’s why we got in a fight,” I say quietly, apropos to nothing. “The photography thing. Kind of, anyway.”

She turns to look at me for a second, headlights from the other cars illuminating her solemn face in the dark car. She doesn’t speak, giving me time and space to continue should I choose to.

And I do. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted her to know me.

So I keep going.

“God, it seems so stupid now, but it’s how the whole fight started. Me telling him I wanted to go to an art institute and study photography; him disagreeing with me, telling me how stupid he thought it was. And he did not hold back, let me tell you.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, remembering every cruel word exchanged, every ounce of resentment revealed.

“I know I shouldn’t have cared, should’ve just done whatever I wanted and ignored him. But I needed him to be a cosigner on my loan for art school—Mom didn’t qualify—and he wouldn’t do it. Not for his own financial reasons, but because he said it was a dead-end profession. Of course, me being a teenager, I escalated it quickly. Told him he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He had an English degree—that he was a failed college professor who had conned his TA into falling for him. Then I leaned into the savagery and pulled the abandonment card. Told him he didn’t have much of a say considering our history and he owed me. I told him how disappointed I was in him that he was never there, that he was a failure of a father and, subsequently, a man.” I put my face in my hands, chest tightening. In a second, the possibility of breathing becomes nearly impossible. “He didn’t take that well. Said some vicious things. So I said some more back. And then… Well, I said maybe it would’ve been best if my mother had lied and told him I didn’t exist after all.”

“Jesus,” she mutters.

“And you wanna know what he said, Lottie?”

“No, because I have a feeling it will affect the impression I have of Walter,” she whispers. “It’s no secret he wasn’t an easygoing man, but I loved and respected him despite it. You should tell me anyway, though.”

“He said he wished she’d never told him either. He wished he never knew I existed.”

The memory of that moment slices through my chest, the pain so visceral I have to look away. The look on his face, the sound of his voice, his stance… It’s the same reel that runs over and over in my head every time I think of him. And it cuts deep.

I hear Lottie’s sharp inhale, followed by a soft whisper, barely audible to my ears. “What the hell were you thinking, Walter?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her bite her lip, holding something back.

I groan. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’re going to feel all sorry for me and this isn’t exactly making me look too good, is it?” I feel my cheeks heat, for the second time today feeling like a child, embarassed out of my mind.

“No, no. I—I… Well, I feel utterly devastated. For you. For Walter, too. Especially since I know Walter wasn’t a bad man. Was he the bad guy in your story? Yeah. I guess so. But I know that deep down, he was a man who cared. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have offered me a job, wouldn’t have offered all those words of wisdom and advice. He was cynical and jaded, snarky and sarcastic—yes, at times unrelenting when he disagreed with someone—but never bad.” She pauses. “No, never bad.”

She blows a puff of air through her lips, mussing her bangs up in the process—but she doesn’t seem to notice. “He made a mistake, which hurt you both deeply, and he didn’t know how to fix it. I don’t know why he said the things he said, or acted the way he did, Knox. But from what we saw today, it’s clear he regretted it. It’s clear he wanted to be a part of your life, and continued to do so from afar. He kept tabs on you, told his closest friends about you.” She glances back at me, but I look away again, not wanting to meet her gaze. “That doesn’t sound like someone who is disappointed in their son. He was proud of you. He loved you. He just didn’t know how to.”

It takes a moment before I can reply, my voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For holding my hand through it. Literally and metaphorically speaking.”

She reaches over the center console for my hand like she did earlier today, and takes it in hers, holding it for the rest of the ride home.

“This is me,” she says, pulling over close to the curb and putting the car in park. She turns the engine off, unbuckles her seatbelt to look at me, and waits for me to open my door and make a move to take over the driver’s seat.

Instead, I look up at the house and smile, taking in the two-story white Victorian with wide eyes and admiration. “It’s really nice.”

She snorts. “It isn’t mine. I live in the loft above the garage,” she mutters, cheeks reddening.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t⁠—”

“It’s fine. I rent it from Alejandro. He owns it.”

“Right,” I bob my head, uncharacteristically monosyllabic.