Page 80 of Risking it All

“Yeah. It’s just that… Thank you for coming for me today, for helping, for…” I trailed off as I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry for fighting with you.”

Dad stayed silent for a beat before saying, “Right back at you. Maybe we should listen to your mom when she’s trying to stop us. She does appear to be the voice of reason.”

“Don’t let her know. She sort of gloats.”

“It’s not sort of. Your mom gloats.”

I leaned my back against his workbench. “I don’t know why I fight with you when I don’t do it with anyone else.”

“Generational curse? I fought with my parents during my freshman year. I thought I knew everything, and they knew nothing.”

Dad hardly ever talked about his past—at least when it came to his parents or being in foster care. What little my brothers and I did know about this era of his life was because of Mom. She’d tell us tidbits in front of him as if hoping Dad would speak up and fill us in, but he never accepted the prompt.

“What were your parents like?” I asked.

Dad rolled a pencil between his hands and then rested it on the bench. “The best. Hard on me when they needed to be. Fair most of the time. Probably fair all the time, but I was too young to see it. Maybe you and I fight because they died when I was fourteen, and now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing since I had no adult guidance after that. By the time you hit high school, I’ve been winging this whole parenting thing.”

“Did Mom fight with Grandpa?” I asked.

“Your mom buckled under your grandpa. She stood up to him a few times, but overall, she kept it all inside and let him have his way. I’d rather have you fight with me than buckle. I don’t want you to be a doormat for anyone. Me included. As much as I hate it, I’m glad we’re fighting again. It may not be my favorite piece of you, but it’s one hundred percent you, and I like having you around again.”

I liked that I was finding myself again, too. “Mom says we fight because we’re alike.”

Dad flashed a wry grin. “Let’s not give your mom any more ammunition for gloating.”

I snorted but then sobered. “You’re the first person I thought of when I was shot.”

Dad’s smile fell, and I hated how pain overtook his expression. “Macie…”

“I lay there and kept thinking: I want my dad.” My throat thickened and I breathed through it, even when my eyes burned with building tears. “Even though you make me so angry…” How to explain? “You’re the first one I think of when I needhelp. When I woke up from the sedation in the hospital, you were there. When PT was horrible, you were there. When I was scared at night when I first came home, you were there. You have always been there when I need you, and then I go and fight with you…” My voice broke and I trailed off as I hugged myself, feeling as if all my insides might fall out if I didn’t.

“Why do I do it?” I asked. “Why can’t I tell you I love you? Because when I lay on the ground bleeding, gasping for air, I kept thinking that I didn’t tell you enough that I loved you. I never said it nearly enough. I still don’t, and I don’t understand why.”

Dad ran a hand over his face as he stood. He gathered me into his arms and hugged me tight. “I love you, too, Macie,” he whispered as he kissed my head. “I love you so damn much. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop what happened to you. I’m so sorry.”

I hugged him back. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it’s my job to protect you. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“You’re doing your job. You came when I called. That’s all I need.” I would never stop needing my dad. Ever.

“Always, Macie,” Dad said. “Always. I swear to you, whenever you need help, I’m there.” Dad squeezed me then whispered, “We have problems.”

Confused, I eased back and wiped my eyes and running nose. “What’s that?”

Dad tipped his chin toward the front of the garage. “Your mom’s gloating again.”

I turned and laughed when I saw her leaning against the front wall of the garage, watching us with that this-is-what-I-had-been-trying-to-do-all-along smug smile.

I took a deep breath and jumped into the deep end of the pool. “Would you two like to officially meet Relic?”

Dad glanced at Mom then back at me. “Did he really help you go to the scene?”

“They all did, but Relic’s been great. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s easier to talk to him about it. His life is complicated, though. More complicated than I can claim to understand.”

“But your dad could understand,” Mom said as she joined us in the back of the garage. “He doesn’t talk about it a lot, but his years in foster care were very complicated.”

Dad didn’t deny it, just crossed his arms. “Isaiah had it rougher.”

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