Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Wylde sighs into the phone. “I know it’s hard, buddy. I’m going to give you some advice, okay?”
“Okay,” I readily agree. He’s already given quite a bit, mostly on how to manage hockey and a dying parent. How to keep focused and my head in the game, even though my thoughts are often scattered in a million different directions.
“If there’s anything left that needs to be said,” he says, giving a dramatic pause that makes my ears really tune in, “don’t wait to say it. Don’t let embarrassment or a lack of a foundation hold you back. Don’t let yourself have any regrets.”
I consider his words. I’ve never been one to have deep discussions with my dad, nor he with me. Our relationship these last few weeks since I’ve been back has been easygoing, as much as it can be with such a dark cloud hanging over us.
“My dad was a horrible drunk,” Wylde tells me, and my body jolts from the proclamation. I didn’t know a lot of the details, only that he had a parent die of cancer and went through many of the things I’m going through. “I hated him for the longest time. We didn’t speak for years, and I was fine with that.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and I wonder if he regrets saying these things to me. But then he continues. “But when I found out he had stomach cancer and was dying, I had a really hard decision to make.”
“To choose to let those feelings go?” I venture a guess.
“That was part of it,” he admits. “I knew my time to do something was limited. I had to not only let my hatred go, I also had to figure out how to love him again in a very short period of time. And that meant I had to talk to him and really communicate my feelings.”
“But I don’t hate my dad.” I may have had some bitter feelings over time that he wasn’t there for me the way my mom was, but that wasn’t important.
“You don’t have to hate your dad to want to make things as right as you can for him so he can transition away from this life with peace.”
His words slam into me so viciously, I almost double over from the pain. I wonder, is there anything that my dad needs from me to make it easier for him to let go?
“Just talk to him as much as you can, Rafe,” Wylde says softly and with a wisdom that I can’t discount. “Do whatever you can to ease his suffering, and I’m not talking about the physical side of things.”
“Thanks, Aaron,” I murmur, more than grateful for the advice. I’m not sure I would have figured that out on my own.
“I’m here for anything you need,” he assures me. “You call anytime, day or night.”
“I will,” I promise, knowing that I’ll take him up on that. He’s the only friend I have that knows exactly what I’m feeling right now, and I’m not above taking advantage of that resource.
“How’s the love-life going?” he asks me with a chuckle. The last time we talked, I filled him in on reconnecting with Calliope, including details of our sordid past. When you bare your soul about a dying parent, talking about your first love is pretty easy.
“It’s complicated,” I reply but don’t offer any more. While Wylde is the best man to talk to about what I’m going through with my dad, he’s absolutely clueless about love and relationships. He’s, without a doubt, the resident playboy on the Vengeance team, and breaking hearts—not mending them—is his specialty.
“I’ll give you the same advice,” he replies, amusement evident in his tone. “Talk to her. Don’t hold back. Tell her how you feel.”
“She’s not dying, though,” I reply drolly, because talking to Calliope is probably harder than talking to my dad.
“She might not be,” he says, and I can’t help but smile at the amusement I hear in his voice, “but you don’t want whatever is between you two to wither away because of lack of communication. Come on, dude…it’s basic communication 101.”
Much later, as I’m sitting by my father’s bed while he continues to sleep, my mom in the kitchen making some sort of chicken casserole, I think about the things I want to say to Calliope. How I’d like to be able to make a go of things with her and put aside this ridiculous notion of hers that we can’t be more than what we are.
But fear holds me back because I know, deep down, she hasn’t forgiven me for what I did, and she thinks I’m going to do the same thing to her again.
She’d be wrong about that, though.
The question is, how to convince her of that? That’s something I need to figure out.