Page 99 of The Very First Night

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FORTY-EIGHT

KAT

Jenna’s feet shuffle to a sudden halt on the pavement, her heels grinding against the rough concrete. With a sharp turn of her body, she faces me and demands, “Okay, tell me what happened.” Her arms flail in an urgent gesture, but I just roll my eyes.

“I told you—once we get to the library.”

Jenna has been asking me about this weekend the entire walk from Franklin Hall to the library on campus. I know I’m slowly torturing her, but I probably would have told her ten minutes ago if it wasn’t so entertaining watching her freak out.

She grips my arm tightly and drags me along the main walkway, not caring about my struggling feet. “Come on, you’re like the slowest walker I know,” she huffs, impatiently pulling me along.

Once we’re in the library, she turns to me, irritated impatience marring her brow.

“Nope,” I say, “gotta get upstairs. I don’t want to walk and talk about it.”

She all but screams in frustration as she yanks me toward the escalator against the far wall. Once we’ve made it up three sets of escalators and barrel past one seriously irritated library worker, Jenna and I are finally comfortably seated at our favorite table overlooking Risman Plaza.

“Spill,” she demands.

Part of me wants to drag it out longer, in part because it’s clearly driving Jenna nuts not having all the information, but also because I don’t know how to put into words what happened without sounding like a crazy person. I’ve told Jenna almost everything about me and my life from the moment I met her, except when it comes to the whole “Hey, I went back in time” of it all. There are some things that are just outright insane, and even I don’t think Jenna would be entirely against having me committed.

I opt to tell her everything minus that little tidbit.

“I told you; he showed up at my house.” I pick up my cup of coffee, now lukewarm and unappealing, and take a sip.

Jenna’s eyebrows furrow and creep up toward her hairline. “Then what?” she asks and I just shrug, which causes her to groan in exasperation. “Kat, just tell me!”

The employee behind the desk ten feet away shushes us.

I bite my lip. “I might have told him I’m in love with him and he said it back,” I mumble against the lip of my disposable cup.

Jenna’s jaw drops. “Way to bury the fucking lead, Marritt!” Swatting my arm, she leans in, resting her chin against her open palm. “Then what?”

Then…then we had a long conversation about how the hell we ended up here, both metaphorically and physically. However, I decide to tell her about Patrick instead.

Jenna’s voice trembles and her eyes glaze over with sadness. “Wait, your dad has cancer?” she asks, the previous excitement in her tone now replaced by heavy melancholy.

“Yeah, but it’s fine.” I wave my hand in dismissal, causing her brows to pull together.

“Kat.”

“What?”

Jenna’s teeth sink into her bottom lip before she nervously chews on the inside of her cheek. She looks up at me, a sympathetic glint in her eyes. “It’s okay to feel upset about this,” she says softly. “It’s okay to not be okay about it. I know your relationship with your dad?—”

“I don’t have a relationship with my dad.”

“Fine.” She clears her throat. “I know your lack of relationship with your dad makes things complicated, but if you have any emotions about this news, know that no one will judge you for it.” Her tone softens and she reaches out to lightly touch my hand in support.

I know Jenna is right—that my reaction to this news is much more about me than him. However, whenever I think about it too much, I just find myself growing more and more angry.

I don’t want to be angry; I’ve spent far too much time being angry.

The day I mustered up the courage to stop sending letters to my dad was like ripping off an old band-aid, bringing a sharp sting but also a sense of relief. For so long, I chased after the elusive man I thought he could be if he just cared enough to try. But as the years passed by, it became clear that being a dad to me would always take a back seat to his own selfish desires. And so, I made the difficult decision to let go of that burden and move on with my life.

Yet, even now, the thought of him passing away without us ever having a conversation weighs heavily on my heart. The ache in my chest serves as a constant reminder of what could have been if only our relationship had been different.

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