The Shippers(56)

My dad pressed his hands down on the ship’s railing. Then he took a deep breath. “Maybe I took your mom for granted. Or our family. But that was because, for me, there was never any question. You all belonged to me, and I belonged to you, and that’s just how it was.”

My dad looked down at the water, then up at the sky. “But I guess that wasn’t how it was. I worked too hard. I was gone too much. Your mom was unhappy. I thought I was the only one who was lonely.”

And then, I swear to god, my ex-marine dad’s eyes filled with tears.

“Have you said all that to her?” I asked.

“I’m just trying to get through this wedding,” my dad said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But you’re also—at the same time—trying to save your marriage.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“It’s not over ’til it’s over,” I said. “You should say all of that to Mom—exactly the way you just said it to me.”

My dad looked down at the water skimming the edge of the boat below. He nodded, like he was really considering it.

I felt an impulse to hug him.

But we really didn’t know each other that well.

Instead, I just stepped closer. “Dad,” I said. “I believe you. And I want you to know something: I am on your team.”

My dad frowned, like he hadn’t realized there were teams.

So I said, “You’re not alone.”

And then my dad sighed, like those were words he hadn’t realized he needed to hear.

As if she sensed us talking about her, my mom appeared on the deck, saw us, and started walking in our direction. I could tell, even from a hundred feet away, that she needed those flowers and she wasn’t too pleased with our dawdling.

My dad could tell, too.

“Talk to her,” I urged.

“She’s busy,” my dad said. “I don’t want to add to her stress.”

“It’s not stress to find out that your husband loves you madly.”

My dad blinked, like that was really a new way of framing it.

“Tell her,” I said. “Tell her you love her! Tell her you were gone all the time because you love her. Tell her that it wasn’t neglect—it was the opposite. Tell her how hard you were trying. She thinks you weren’t around because you didn’t care. Don’t let her leave you for the wrong reasons!”

My dad’s face was tight with worry. “Can you write all that down?”

“What?”

“What you just said.”

“I was just summing up what you just said.”

“But you’re saying it with a better vocabulary.”

“It’s not about vocabulary. It’s about speaking from the heart. And also setting the record straight. Have a real conversation with her, Dad. She might still leave you, but at least you’ll both know why.”

“I don’t want to seem like a whiner.”

“Wanna know what you seem like to me?” I asked.

My dad met my eyes.

“You seem like a man who loves his family very much. And who’s trying like hell to get it right.”

My dad was fidgeting. Vulnerability was not his favorite emotion.

“That’s your homework,” I said then. “Pull her aside. Tell her everything you just told me. Tell her you can change. And ask her to take you back on a trial basis.”

“A trial basis?”

I nodded. “Once that’s done, we’ll move on to phase two.”

“What’s phase two?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out.”

My mother was almost within earshot.

“More to come on this,” I said, giving him a little salute.

And then, I guess because he also wanted a hug but also had no idea how to make that happen … my dad just nodded and saluted me back.





Nineteen


LET’S JUST SKIP the kayaking, okay?

Did I go?

Yes.

Did Finn wear his helmet?

No. But he was clearly disappointed about that.

And was I so nervous all morning before going that I fully forgot to put on any sunscreen—at all—and came back from that five-hour excursion broiled like a lobster?

I’m sorry to say: Yes.

But sunburns can take a while to set in. I didn’t really notice what I’d done to myself until I got back to the room and Cooper, who was practicing his mini banjo, looked up and said, “That’s a hell of a sunburn.”

“Is it?” I asked, suddenly getting the shivers.

“Didn’t you put on sunscreen?”

I shook my head. “I was so nervous, I forgot.”

Cooper came closer to look me over. “No hat? Nothing?” he asked, hoping for a different answer.

“Nothing,” I said.

I turned toward the mirror. I did look a little pink. And, now that we were noticing it, I felt a little pink, too.

Then Cooper nodded like a doctor with a diagnosis. “First,” he said, “Tylenol. Then take a lukewarm shower to get the salt water off before it starts stinging too bad. Did you bring aloe?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll check the gift shop. And I’ll get water bottles. You have to hydrate like crazy.”