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I stare down eyes that match mine. His jaw and brows are mine, too. And somewhere deep down, he’s still the man who showed me how to tie a rolling hitch knot. He’s the one who made the best grilled cheese sandwiches after a rainy day on the water.
“I still love you, Dad.” With the clench of my throat, I swallow it down. “That’s how you can’t disown me. That’s how I’m THE Van de May. I’ll love you until the day I die. And deep down”—I poke his chest this time—“you still love me too. Maybe one day, you’ll be man enough to act like it.”
I trod back down the steps. That’s not the talk I wanted to have, but that’s the fight we needed. It should’ve happened years ago. But I was a kid then. I was too shocked and scared and hurt and mad.
Not anymore. I know who I am. I don’t know who I’ll love next, but at least I know I will.
“Bye, Mom.” I pull her into a hug. She’s dried her tears and grabs me back. “Come see me next weekend. Will you?”
“Nothing but death will keep me from it.” She throws down that old Southern phrase, and it’s not hyperbole with her.
When I jump in my truck and turn on the ignition, I want to punch the air triumphantly. Because Cade’s right. I didn’t need her by my side to confront my dad or to see my mom again.
There are some things we gotta do on our own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m not used to air like this. It’s crisp and thin and feels like tiny icicles awakening my lungs instead of the heavy, steamy air I live in.
Spring in the Appalachian Mountains is nothing like the season on the Lowcountry coast. The six-hour drive cleared my mind, too. With each week alone, I’m getting better at it.
Crashing my parents’ vacation here helps. But they asked me to. They’re renting a mountain chalet for the week, clicking down a list of places to go. They begged me to come this week, so I took it off.
“You need another blanket?” I ask my mama, who’s sharing the sofa with me. We have the doors open to the panoramic view, and the morning breeze is refreshing but cool.
“Nope.” Mama tugs at the afghan, covering her legs and mine. “This smutty book is keeping me plenty warm.”
My mama and her books. I read them when she’s done, but I can’t handle steamy pages right now. It only turns up my sex drive that’s been in fifth gear with thoughts of Redix and Silas. And since I’m on a self-imposed celibate hiatus, I’m not torturing myself.
Mama “hmphs,” and that lifts my eyes from the thriller I’m reading.
“I don’t get it,” she says.
“Get what?”
“When women authors write this about men.”
“Write what?”
“Jeff!” Mama shouts out to my dad, frying bacon in the kitchen. “Come here, hun.”
He pops his head around the corner. “Need more coffee?”
“No,” she replies. “Answer me this.” Her book falls to her lap, and she shimmies her thin body up to start her interrogation. “Do your balls tighten up when you come?”
I spew my coffee. Like legit. It splatters my pages, the afghan, the microsuede sofa, and a bit of Mama.
My dad laughs.
“Mama!” I admonish her. “Ewww!”
But she holds her line of questioning because that’s Sheriff Gloria Bryant.
“I’m reading a fuck scene,” she explains, “and this author wrote that the man’s balls tighten when he comes, but I’ve never heard of that. Is it true?”
Her tone sounds like she’s asking my dad about the migratory patterns of bottlenose dolphins. But no.
“Mama, I don’t want to know about Dad’s balls.”
