Page 98 of We Drank the Dawn

I wanted nothing more than to just crawl into bed early.

But my dad texted me.

Dad

Haven’t heard back from you. You ok?

I figured I should call him instead of ghosting, but I dreaded digging up my feelings when I was so tired. My shame lurked like a monster in the darkness. It would take every shred of my strength to say what I needed to say without falling apart. And I wanted to keep my dignity if possible.

While I deliberated, he texted again.

Dad

Fueling up at a truck stop. Gonna be on the road for five more hours. I’ll have my headset.

Giving him time to finish filling the tank and his coffee thermos, I took a shower and changed into gym shorts and a t-shirt. Then I grabbed my cane from my bunk and set out across the barnyard toward the barn. At this time of evening, it was quiet there. None of the cowboys were working or messing with horses until nighttime chores which didn’t take place until eight-thirty or so.

The inside was cool, and the smell of hay tickled my nose.

The corridor was t-shaped, with one main hall lined with stalls and closets and two wings off the side—the grooming station on the right and the hayloft ladder and storage on the left. And, if I remembered correctly, there was a barrel somewhere against the wall at the bottom of the hayloft ladder. That felt like a private, quiet place to sit.

Finding it exactly where I thought it was, I eased down and listened to make sure I was alone. No noise or movement, save the shuffling of horses in their stalls, reached my ears.

“Hello? Anyone in here?” I called out.

No one answered.

Satisfied, I told Siri, “Call Dad.”

As the phone rang, I shifted in discomfort.

“Peter! There you are.”

Tension unraveled from my shoulders at his tone. He was still eager to talk to me, and that meant more than I could express. “Hey, Dad, sorry for taking so long. It’s been a pretty wild day.”

“No, problem. You’ve been on my mind constantly, so when I got your text early this morning, I started to worry that something was wrong.” A dull hum over the line meant he was probably cruising down an interstate somewhere in the United States.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to talk for a minute.”

“Well, good. I’ve been wanting to talk to you as well, but Bea said to give you a couple days. What’s on your mind, son?”

“I…” I couldn’t even get a word out before a swell of emotions made it hard to talk. “I don’t like the way we left stuff, Dad.”

He gave a soft hum of agreement.

“I’ve been angry at you for the way you talked to me, but I know why you said what you said. And I just wanted to say—” My voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m ashamed of what I’ve become, but I have no idea how to change it. So I’m stuck feeling awkward and guilty for everything I do and say, and I just—” I faltered for a moment. “The idea of you being disappointed in me or thinking I’m a big screw up is…” I couldn’t find the words to finish. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

When a beat of silence stretched, I cleared my throat.

“You done?” Dad’s voice was heavy.

“Yeah.”

“When I think of you, what I feel is grief. Not disappointment. Grief.” Unafraid to show his emotions, Dad didn’t try to calm the tremble in his voice. “Because I’ve seen my boy fall and pull himself up more times than I can count. But this time…this time you didn’t get up.”

My chest tightened.

He said, “I’m afraid that life finally got too heavy and beat you down too much. That’s what keeps me up at night—worry that my son won’t rise again. But I need to apologize as well, Peter. I was too harsh⁠—”