Page 129 of The Single Dad

“We weren’t close,” Cole says, his tone hollow. He folds his arms on the table, his shoulders hunched over. “It shouldn’t be a big deal.”

Declan shakes his head. “Of course it’s a big deal. That’s your fucking father. Something like this is going to drag up a lot of emotions.”

“He was a piece of shit,” Cole argues, his hands clenching into fists. “You know the history there. He was an abusive piece of shit, and he’s… he hasn’t been part of my life for a long time.”

“Listen,” Declan says, “I get it. My father is a complete bastard. But it’s still going to hit me when he dies, just because… well, for better or worse, he was part of your development. He’s part of the reason why you are who you are.”

“That’s a heavy feeling.” Reed leans forward to lay a reassuring hand on Cole’s shoulder, and Cole nods. “You gotta let yourself feel it. I’m sorry, man. We’re here for you, whenever you need us.”

“I know,” Cole says. He sets his phone on the table, face-down, as if he can’t bear to look at it anymore.

“Do you want to postpone game night?” Reed asks. “We completely understand if you need some time to process this.”

For a few seconds, Cole hesitates, considering. Then, finally, he nods and sighs. “I’m sorry, guys. I just don’t think I have it in me anymore. I’d rather push it off for a few days—take the time to get my head on straight.”

“No problem whatsoever,” Reed says. I’m surprised at the sincerity in his voice; of the three of them, Reed strikes me as the most unserious, always the first to talk shit and the last to understand the gravitas of a situation. Right now, though, he’s subdued, genuine.

“Give us a call whenever you need us,” Declan adds. “We’ll be there.”

“Thanks, guys.” Cole offers them a half-hearted smile. “I really appreciate this.”

Declan and Reed help Cole gather up the cards, and, on their way out, each of them claps Cole on the back in a gesture of support. They take their coats from the hall closet, then head out into the night.

Alone, Cole spends a minute or so at the table, staring down at its surface. I’m still frozen in the doorway, not sure what to do. Eventually, he stands, picking up his drink. He takes the decanter of whiskey from the kitchen counter and wanders into the living room.

Hesitantly, I follow him, sitting down on the couch a few feet away from him. I want to be there for him, but I also want to give him some space, if he needs it.

Cole tops off his glass of whiskey, then downs it in one swallow. He lets out a quiet hiss from the burn of the alcohol, then pours himself another glass, which he leaves untouched on the coffee table.

He seems distracted, lost in thought.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I venture, my heart pounding in my chest.

He glances at me, his expression troubled as he shakes his head. “It’s like I told the guys. We weren’t close.”

“I know. But… Declan was right. It’s still heavy. You have every right to feel how you feel.”

He reaches for the coffee table, picking up his glass and then setting it down again before leaning back on the couch. I slide a little closer to him, wishing I could think of something perfect to say, but also knowing I won’t be able to lighten his mood. He needs time to feel this.

“My father was a real piece of shit,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “He was a bad parent and a terrible person. We had to fend for ourselves because of him. It—it was his abuse that led to my sister’s struggles.”

I lay a hand on his knee, trying to comfort him. He gives me a grateful look, then continues.

“But… even though he was about as awful as he could’ve been, I still somehow remember these little flashes of good times. Like when he taught me to drive. He was a pretty good teacher. Much more patient than he normally was. Or the time he took me and my sister to the beach…”

Cole trails off, lost in the memory. After a few moments, the focus returns to his gaze, and he says, “I feel like my brain is trying to cling to those moments, like it’s trying to use those little scraps of good to block out everything bad that happened.”

His words remind me of something I learned in a psychology lecture while I was in college. Rather than give him the textbook terminology, I tell him, “That’s normal. It happens to all of us. Over time, everything will balance out again.”

“You think so?” He glances at me. His eyes are glazed, and it occurs to me for the first time that I’ve never seen him cry. I’ve rarely even seen his expression change.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I do.”

Cole takes a deep breath, then exhales, as though he can purge the negative emotion by breathing it out. “Fuck. I don’t know what to feel. What to think.”

I want to say more, but I stop myself. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say or do to take his pain away, no matter how much I wish I could. This is probably something he has to feel. It needs to hurt before it gets better.

I can’t fix that. But I can make it easier to bear.

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