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“I didn’t what?”
I swallow, wishing now that I had some bourbon to coat my throat with its spicy warmth. I face my father.
He’s old now. Still a full head of thick hair but sprinkled with gray. Crow’s feet crinkle around his eyes. Lines from his dimples draw an intersection down his cheeks. He’s still vibrant, though. He’s calm, but his fiery brown eyes tell the true story. He’s angry with me.
Angry, and he has no reason to be. I’m not hurting him.
I’m hurting Ashley.
And myself.
And it dawns on me. That’s why he’s angry. Sure, he doesn’t want to see Ashley hurt, but even more so, he doesn’t want me to hurt.
He doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know about the phone call from the fire marshal. But even that isn’t the biggest thing I’ve hidden from him.
He doesn’t know about that horrible day. The day they broke me.
And I smile. Not a happy smile, but a smile because I’ve just discovered a universal truth, and there’s a certain constancy—even beauty—to it.
When you hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up. So I basically have nowhere to go. Period.
It pours out of me, then. From my mouth and in my voice, though in some ways it seems to come from somewhere far away.
I confess.
I confess all the truths of my life to my father. It flows out of me like lava hiccupping out of an active volcano. All of it. Every last bit. The fire. My birth father’s confession. Even the day they broke me.
Tears run down my cheeks, though I don’t sob. I speak. I speak in actual words what I’ve never told another soul. What I’ve let eat away at me for the last twenty-five years. What I was sure would never surface.
Until Ashley awakened me.
I tell him everything.
And I wait for him to disavow me.
For what seems like days, I wait, sitting in the uncomfortable wingback upholstered in burgundy velvet. The color of Syrah. Of my voice.
Finally—
“You have two choices.” Dad’s voice.
“I have no choice,” I say.
Ashley’s words haunt me. You do, Dale. You always have a choice.
I grab a tissue off the table next to me and blow my nose. “It doesn’t go away.”
“You’re right.” Dad nods. “That’s not what I was talking about.”
“What the fuck, then, Dad? I’ve hit bottom. I’ve fucked everything up. What the hell is my choice?”
Dad pauses a moment, rubbing his forehead. “I once had to make a similar choice, Dale.”
He still hasn’t told me what the choice is. “You didn’t lose your orchard.”
“No, I didn’t. Not that autumn, anyway. I’m not talking about losing half the Syrah. I’m not talking about what your father—your birth father—did to you. I’m not even talking about what you think you did to your brother.”
“What I think I did? Are you kidding?”
“You were a child yourself, Dale. They were hurting you. Violating you. You held out longer than anyone else would have.”
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I understand,” he says, “but you must. You must, or you’ll never be free.”
“I don’t deserve to be free.”
Dad smiles then. He fucking smiles! And my fists curl. I swear to God I’m about to punch my father in the jaw.
“Easy,” he says. “Let me tell you a story.”
Is he going to finish what he began the night of the reception? Before Dennis had the stroke and everything went to shit?
“First, by telling you this,” he says, “I don’t want you to think I’m belittling your situation. Our situations are different. They have some similarities, but I admit several things make yours harder. I know how much the Syrah means to you, son.”
“Do you?” I shake my head.
“Of course I do. How could I not? Do you think I didn’t seek solace of my own?”
“You joined the military, Dad. You served your country, and while I admire that greatly, it’s hardly seeking solace.”
He lets out a scoffing chuckle. “I didn’t join the military to serve my country.”
I widen my eyes. “Why, then?”
“Dale, I joined the military so I’d get sent to Iraq, and I did.”
“I know. And you were a hero.”
He scoffs again. “Was I? I saved some lives. Lives I wouldn’t have saved if I’d been trying to save my own ass.”
My heart nearly stops. “You mean…”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I went to Iraq to die, son. I didn’t think I was coming back.”
I go numb. Numb and sick. What if…? What if my father hadn’t come back from Iraq? He wouldn’t have been there to save Donny and me. We would have died as someone’s property. Sold into slavery for others’ pleasure, and once we were too old, we’d have either been killed or abandoned.
Diana and Brianna would have never been born.
And Mom…. They never would have met.
I clear my throat. “But you came back.”
“I did. I got a hero’s welcome. I turned down national recognition because I wasn’t a hero, Dale. I went back in to get killed. While I was there, I saved a few lives.”
