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"It's simple," he said as he turned his wrists over and back. "You want to love Brandon the right way? Forgive you for what you did? You just have to figure out his language. And know it might not be the one you speak." He gave me a knowing look. "But also, he needs to learn yours. Has he tried to do that too?"
First Jane, now my dad. Why was everyone able to see this solution besides me? I looked at my hands clasped over my knees, at the hand-pounded bracelet that encircled one wrist. A gift from Brandon, one that demonstrated a moment when he'd learned how to get through to me. Our affair had started with so many of his missteps, many of them rooted in miscommunication. Big grandiose gestures to me, a girl who hated material gifts. But he'd learned how to speak to my heart––much more, I realized, than I'd ever learned to speak to his.
I'd just assumed he knew how I felt––how could anyone not love Brandon? How wrong I was.
"I think they're teaching you some stuff in here, old man," I said, nudging Dad's bony shoulder.
In return, he gave me another one of his patented shy grins.
"Ah, well," he said. "It could be worse."
~
