Page 72 of Ardently Yours

Lizzie will probably never want to see me again. And if Lizzie doesn’t want to see me again, then why would the rest of the group?

Of course I’m going to miss my friends, and I don’t want to let Jay down by backing out of the wedding. But she was their friend first. So why would they want me there? Guilt and uncertainty plagues me.

We’re walking toward Dad’s hospital room, and I already know what awaits me there. But everything going on in my mind is already bad enough. We enter the room just as a nurse walks out. He smiles at us and steps out of our way.

“Well, it’s about time that you all showed up,” Mom says in greeting.

“It’s good to see you too,” Georgiana says, going over to give Mom a hug, and Mom kisses her on the cheek.

She’s used to all this because she still lives at home. But I’ve been gone for a while. Of course I still know how it goes, and I know what to expect, but I’m a little slow to move.

Mom walks toward me anyway, her arms stretched wide open like I’m supposed to walk into them. So I do. But I’m not really paying attention. Even when she kisses my cheek and I hug her, it feels as distant as ever.

Hugs are supposed to be comforting. Kisses are supposed to be sweet. But from her, it just feels like I’m paying a price. Like I’m saying I’ll stay because I came back.

Because I don’t have a choice. Because I have nowhere else to go. It’s like I’m giving up on everything.

My dreams. My hopes. My friends. My Lizzie. But I think that’s exactly what I have to do because if she doesn’t feel the same way, then there’s nothing to go back to.

Mom starts crying the moment I let her go. I have no choice but to be present now, looking at her, and trying to figure out what’s wrong. Georgiana is back at Mom’s side in a heartbeat. She holds Mom’s hand. I don’t.

I stare at them, then look over at Dad lying there. He is sleeping now, but stirring, like he is about to wake up. Mom sniffles. Without words, I know it. She’s worried for her husband.

For a long time, I thought they didn’t love each other. Not in that romantic way. They seemed to work. To be together because they’d been together for a long time, had built a family, and a business together.

But I never saw them holding hands, kissing, or doing anything remotely romantic growing up. Or even as an adult. But watching her cry as she looked over at him showed me that she loved him. Each tear was her love.

I knew that she stuck by my dad. She defended him even when he was wrong. Like when he threatened to take away my inheritance and my aunt’s house.

She texted me sometimes, wanting me to come back home, but she’d never say a bad thing about him or admit that he was wrong to do that.

When she sniffles again and turns to me, I expect her to defend him again. To tell me to go over to him. To pledge my allegiance. To say that I’ll stay and be the loyal son who will take over the company so he can rest and get better. No matter my dreams or heartaches.

But she doesn’t do that. She reaches out for me. I take a few steps toward her, accepting her hand in mine.

“He’s been in and out of it,” Mom says, nodding in Dad’s direction. “But he was up this morning. And you know what was one of the first things he said to me when he was awake?”

“What’s that?” I ask, not sure I want the answer.

“He asked me about you. He wanted to know if I called you yet, if you had come to see him. And he told me that if I hadn’t called, I should because he had some things he wanted to say to you.”

She bursts into tears again, sobbing. Georgiana hugs her tightly. I give Mom’s hand a squeeze, swallowing hard over the lump forming in my throat.

Dad stirs again, so I walk over to him, taking a seat in the chair beside his bed. I wait a minute or two. His eyes slowly open. He looks around the room for a bit, up at the ceiling, and then his head turns on the pillow. His eyes settle on mine.

For a moment, I feel exposed. Like what Mom said was just something to make me feel guilty. To get me to come over to him so he could open his eyes, open his mouth, and tear me apart like he always does.

As I sit there, looking into his eyes, a tear falls. Something in me changes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad cry. I don’t think he ever intended for me to.

But here, lying in his hospital bed, looking weaker than I’ve ever seen him, he cries. And sitting next to his bed, feeling both like the man I’ve become who never wanted to come home again and the little boy who never wanted to disappoint him...I cry too.

“Son,” he croaks out, beckoning for me to come closer.

I lean in so he doesn’t have to strain himself. I help prop him up, pressing the button on the side of the bed to raise him a little higher.

“Dad,” I say, clearing my throat and wiping away tears.

“You came.”