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“I can accept that,” I murmur. She’s seemed like an unsolvable riddle for so long, but now I see she's an onion. Each layer I peel back reveals more layers beneath, and those layers are marinated in grief, anger, resentment, and betrayal.
“I'm not saying you weren't a good father. You did your best, and I always felt safe with you. I felt like you wanted me around. Most of the time,” she's quick to add while her lips tighten in disapproval. “When you weren't consumed by work.”
“Which I was a lot of the time. I know.”
“But at least you wanted me around, unlike my mother.” My heart aches when her voice trembles on the word. My poor, wounded child. I wish I could take the pain she feels away.
“I want you around now, too.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Loving Bianca doesn't mean I love you any less. I don't feel like I should have to say that out loud, but I will in case it helps.” How much have I failed her if she truly needs me to explain that?
“I know you love me. But it's just weird, Dad. I can't pretend it isn't. You used to complain that we made too much noise when she slept over. And there was that one time when we were kids, and I had the pool party for my birthday. Do you remember that? She changed into a two-piece once she got here because she knew Charlie wouldn't let her wear it, and you gave her so much shit over it. Do you remember that?”
I do, and I can see where her discomfort is coming from. “She's not that little girl anymore, and neither are you. You're both grown women.”
Her hip pops out to the side, telling me I walked into a trap with my eyes wide open. “So you would be okay if I started dating Charlie? The two of you are pretty close in age.”
“That's a different story.”
“How so? Explain it to me. How is there any difference in me, a grown woman, deciding I want to be in a relationship with a grown man? Why is it so different for you two? It sounds a lot like a double standard.”
“Come here.” I have to pretend it doesn't hurt when she shrugs away from me when I reach for her. Does she resent me that much? I force myself to push down the anger that instantly flares to life when she tries to avoid me. “Tatum. I just want to sit down with you.”
She sits on the leather sofa against the wall opposite my desk, her arms still folded, her walls still intact. I perch carefully beside her, giving her space when I really want to gather her in my arms. It was so much easier to do that when she was little. So much easier to make everything right back then, so much simpler. Even her wildest tantrums—and God knows she went through them—were easily calmed compared to the vast chasm of pain between us.
It isn't easy, going against my natural paternal instinct and pointing out how she’s clearly not taking care of herself. Her hoodie and yoga pants are more like sails swallowing her thin frame. Her golden curls are frizzy, lifeless, and pulled back in a scrunchy while thick chunks hang around her face and the back of her neck. She looks like she just rolled out of bed even though it's early afternoon. She’s nothing like the girl she used to be, even if she looks the same on the outside.
“Honey. Look at me.” Tension appears in her jawline, but she slowly turns her head. My God, she's haunted. I've seen photos of refugees fleeing war that now come to mind when I find the pain in her eyes. There's no light anymore, not the way there used to be. “Why won't you let me in? Why won't you let me help you? You have me at a loss. I'm not used to standing on the outside, hoping and wishing for a chance to make a difference. I normally barge in and do what I think is best.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I can't do that now. All I want is to help you, and I don't know how. I need you to let me in. Tell me what you need. You know I would do anything in my power for you. But I'm flailing around in the dark. Please, give me a clue. Let me help you through this.”
At first, I'm sure my words have fallen on deaf ears. I watch as she chews her lip, her eyes darting over my face before finally looking away. My heart sinks with certainty that something has broken between us, something that can never be fixed. Not if she refuses to take the first step.
Finally, though, she releases a long sigh. “It's so sudden.”
“The marriage?”
“Yeah. I don't want you to rush into this and get hurt.”
“Do you know something about Bianca that I don't? Because—”
“No, no. I didn't mean it that way. There's a reason she's my best friend and probably one of the only people I trust.”
“I thought so.”
“But she's already run off on you a couple of times now, and I'm not saying she didn't have a reason to. She had a really good reason to; you’re a bit unhinged at best. What happens if you guys fall apart again? What's that going to do to you and to her? This is a huge step, and I know you love her, I do. I know she loves you, too. But are you sure this is the right step? I mean, it's almost like...”
When her brow creases, I know I have to tread lightly. “Go on. You can say it. I'm listening. You don't have to be afraid.”
“Like you were waiting for Mom to die.”
I thought it would come down to Amanda somehow, considering the presence of her urn on Tatum's nightstand. But I didn't know hearing it come from her lips would feel like a slap to the face. “Please believe me when I say this, Tatum. I didn't want your mother to die,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Honey, I need you to believe that. I wanted her to move forward with the divorce, yes. We both know she was dragging her feet, and if she were still alive, I'm sure she would try to stand in the way of this, but that doesn’t mean I wanted her to die.”
All she has to do is arch an eyebrow for a flood of memories to come rushing back. All the times I so casually announced what a relief it would be if Amanda stopped breathing. What a waste of oxygen she was. How I wouldn't shed a tear if she dropped dead.
