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I bop his nose. “Yes, really. The morning of his hangover, you came up every other sentence. He looks up to you.”
His eyes shut, and his lips press tight.
What’s this about? “Lyle?”
“You asked me once if there’s anything I regret,” he murmurs. “I have something I sometimes regret.”
“Sometimes?”
“More like moments of profound regret.”
“But the rest of the time you don’t?”
“The rest of the time I’m happy with the choice I made.”
My limbs tense at the edge in his voice, at his uneven breathing. I push up onto one elbow and look down at him. In the silvery darkness, his face is pale and his eyes are big, dark and shimmery.
It calls for whispering. “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head. “Jordy comes every other weekend. It’s the least I can do.” He shifts his eyes to look directly at me. “He’s not my brother. He’s my son.”
I swallow. “Your . . . son.”
He turns on his side, away from me, and a tear slips down his nose. I recall all the conversations we’ve had about family. How hard it is to be far away, how we want to give them everything when they’re with us. Because we feel guilty.
Even our first meeting—Lyle’s careless words thrown out in frustration with Jordy—takes a different weight. How torn he must have felt, how powerless. How much he must struggle with feelings of responsibility, and possibly, how he doesn’t want to see his son make mistakes so early in life.
Lyle shudders, and his words are full of cracks. “I regret not being more careful. Not considering consequences. Or maybe, not taking them seriously or thinking they’d ever apply to me. And sometimes I regret accepting my parents’ offer to raise him.” He swipes his cheek, and it breaks my heart. I slide an arm around his waist and tug him until his wet face presses into the thin material at my chest.
I stroke large circles on his back; whisper sorries into his hair.
His hot breath seeps into my skin. “I was too young. Mum and Dad gave me the chance to finish school, go to university, live my life. But when Jordy’s with me, when I hear how much he looks up to me . . . I regret how much I love my freedom. Regret not being there for him.”
“You’re doing the best you can. If you’d tried to raise him on your own, you might not be the person you are today.”
“What person is that?”
“One who he looks up to. You had the time to discover yourself, get educated, find a great job, buy a house. You can offer him security now, because you have it yourself. Maybe he’s not with you every day, but you make the days you are with him count.”
“Some days it’s so hard. I feel I’m failing him. Some days I just completely mess up.”
I stroke his hair. “It’s okay if you mess up. Reflect, apologise, try again.”
“You think? It won’t do permanent damage?”
I hum into his hair. “We’re not damaged permanently, and we’ve messed up with one another before.”
Lyle shifts, raises his chin and looks at me.
I lift a gentle brow.
He tucks his head against my chest again and sighs.
We’re quiet after that; his shallow breaths and my long ones. I don’t stop rubbing his back until he drifts off in my arms.
Chapter Fourteen
I stir at the first brush of morning light over my face, and slowly blink my eyes open.
What a solid sleep.
I stretch and shift onto my side, coming face-to-face with a slumbering Lyle. His hair is a tousled mess on the pillow, and his mouth is slightly ajar. He looks far more at peace than he had been last night.
Sunlight touches his forehead, minutes from hitting his eyes. I gently push back my side of the blankets, pad to the curtains, and try to readjust them so the sun doesn’t disturb his sleep. There’s a stubborn crack that refuses to close; I return to the bedside and stack pillows to shade his face.
Let him sleep in. He needs it.
I touch my t-shirt where he’d sobbed against me and my stomach twists. He’s doing his best. He’ll get through this. He’s not alone.
Quietly, so as not to let Jordy find me here, I sneak out of the house. The morning air is sharp and fragrant, and I find myself pacing the street as I recall the emotions of the night.
I’d meant it when I said the mess-ups between us in the past have done no permanent damage. It’s a calming thought. I hope it helps him.
I look up, taking in the houses around me, and glimpse Robin’s at the bend. I sigh, rub my nape, and move towards his gate.
“Robin,” I say, the moment he opens the door.
Like so many times before, his eyes are warm. They light up, as if he has a hundred things he wants to share with me and doesn’t know where to begin.
