“I’m not feeling like a hero,” I said. “I’m feeling like a coward.”
“Why?”
I took a breath and spilled some more. “I haven’t asked my sister about her visit with our dad.”
“Oh.” Winnie shifted in her seat to face me. “I didn’t realize that happened.”
“It happened last weekend. I didn’t say anything about it.”
She remained silent, holding my hand and giving me the space she knew I needed.
“I told her I didn’t want to know how it went.”
“And have you changed your mind?”
“I don’t know. Part of me feels like I should get over my anger because it’s my father and he’s dying, but another part just wants to keep that door closed.”
Winnie nodded, then looked down at our hands. “I struggle with those feelings about my mom too. My real mom—Carla. Not that she’s dying,” she added quickly, “so it’s not the exact same, but I sometimes ignore her attempts to reach out. Like I won’t text or call her back for days, or even weeks. And I feel guilty about it, because I know she’s my mother and she’s offering what she’s capable of, but it still hurts. I don’t want it to affect me, but sometimes it does.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like I want to punish her, but I’m the one who feels punished.” She squeezed my hand. “So I understand wanting to keep the door closed.”
“You don’t think I’m a shitty, fucked-up person to refuse a dying father’s request to see his son?”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
I managed a brief smile. “Thanks.”
“I’m teasing.” Bringing my hand to her lips, she kissed my fingers. “No, I don’t think you’re a shitty, fucked-up person. I think you’re protective of yourself and the people you love—for good reason.”
It was crazy how well she understood me. It made me want to keep talking, turn myself inside out and admit that I was scared to see my father because I didn’t want to feel sorry for him—I didn’t want to feel anything for him, because I didn’t like things I couldn’t control, including that she was leaving and I was scared of being lost and lonely without her. That I was going to miss her so much it hurt. That somehow I’d fallen in love with her, when that had been the one fucking thing I was so sure wouldn’t happen. That my feelings were building and growing and spreading like wildfire, and I couldn’t contain them.
I swallowed hard. “Let’s go in.”
I tried to have fun, but it was a struggle. Winnie was enjoying herself, and that made me happy. She grew up playing cards on Saturday nights with her family too, and she got along with my sister so well, it was like they’d always been friends.
Several times, I’d look over at her and my heart would threaten to burst in my chest. Sometimes I’d have to reach over and touch her shoulder or her leg or her arm, just to satisfy the urge to be closer to her.
I couldn’t wait to get her alone. Maybe she’d stay the whole night with me tonight. So far, we’d always left one another’s beds before the sun came up—we’d never woken up together. I wanted that.
I wanted it way too fucking much.
And I knew that once it happened, I’d want it all the time. My hunger to be with her refused to be satiated—it just fed upon itself and continued to grow.
At the end of the night, she excused herself to the bathroom while Justin put away the cards and I followed Bree into the kitchen.
“That was really fun,” she said, setting glasses in the sink. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Sure.” I leaned against the kitchen doorway, hearing Winnie’s voice in my head.
It’s like I want to punish her, but I’m the one who feels punished.
I knew exactly what she meant.
“You see Dad last weekend?” I ventured.
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Hard.” Bree began putting leftover party meatballs into a plastic container. “But I’m glad I went.”
I took a swig from my beer. “He look the same?”
“No. He’s frail and shriveled. He’s in a lot of pain.”
I wouldn’t feel anything. I wouldn’t.
“He asked about you.”
I drank again. “What did you tell him?”
“Just the basics—you left the Navy, you’re a firefighter now, you’ve got two beautiful girls.” She stuck the container in the fridge. “But that’s as much as I said and I didn’t show him any photos.”