Page 77 of Every Promise Broken

Whit Bowman

Day Two

Conrad: Good morning. I’m sitting on the porch, drinking a cup of coffee as I watch the sunrise, and I can’t help but wish you were here to watch it with me. I used to love getting to see the world the way you saw it. The joy you’d find in the small things, like the sunrise or the sunset. I hope you have a great day.

Conrad: You’d think after not having you in the house for almost five years, I wouldn’t miss you as much, but I do. It’s only been two days since you left, but it feels like an eternity. Sleeping all alone in that bed again feels unbearable. I don’t expect you to respond to this message, but I need you to know that you’re on my mind, and I’ve been thinking about everything that you said.

My phone sits on the counter as I stare down at the messages. One was sent this morning before I was even awake, and the other was sent a minute ago. My throat aches as the urge to respond hits me, but I know I can’t. I’m not ready to face him, at least not yet. I’m still angry.

I’m so fucking angry. And hurt. It’s blinding.

The logical side of my brain knows he was just trying to help, but it’s not the logical part that’s in control right now.

Letting the screen go black, I decide it’ll be best for me to take a hot shower and go to bed. Lord knows I need the sleep anyway.

Day Five

Conrad: Went to Lou’s with Nana for lunch today. She ordered a Rueben, and I laughed to myself, thinking of you and that time you ardently expressed your hatred for it. I love how fiercely passionate you are about the things you love—or in this case, hate. It’s one of the things I fell in love with first about you.

Without my permission, a smile tugs at my lips as the memory of that day comes back to me. That was the day we shared our first kiss, the day I realized my crush wasn’t as one sided as I thought. My stomach flips and my heart thunders behind my ribs as I re-read the message.

Conrad’s sent me at least two texts every single day since day two. I haven’t responded to a single one, but I’ve come to look forward to them.

Day Eleven

Conrad: Bogart and Biscuit miss you.

My chest squeezes as I picture comes through. Conrad took a selfie… with the bison. He’s even almost smiling.

Another message comes through.

Conrad: I miss you too.

Me too.I miss him so much it hurts.

I almost text him back this time… almost. But I chicken out.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day.

31

Whit Bowman

Standing in the entryway to the living room, my dad hasn’t seen me yet. I allow myself this moment to watch him. Wearing a mustard-yellow cable-knit cardigan, much like one I own, that looks too big for him now, he looks different. Not from the last time I was here, but in general. He’s lost weight, and he looks frail almost. Not like the man I remember looking up to when I was a kid. His cheekbones are more pronounced, and his skin looks almost lifeless.

I step farther into the room, making my presence known. My dad turns his head, eyes meeting mine as I sit on the couch directly across from where he’s sitting in his recliner. A smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes reflects back at me.

“Son, hi.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you were stopping by today.”

“I woke up this morning and decided to do some deep cleaning of my house,” I tell him. “When I was dusting my hutch, I started looking at all the planes I built, which, of course, reminded me of you. Figured I’d come say hi.”

When I was little, my dad used to build model planes as a hobby. He’d spend hours upon hours on his days off putting these little, tiny pieces together. Of course, being a little boy who looked up to his dad, I wanted to build them too. I wanted to be just like him. It was such a tedious task, and it required such a deep amount of patience, but once he showed me how to make them, I fell in love.

I haven’t built one in years, but I still have all the ones I made from years ago. They always remind me of my childhood, of a time when my relationship with my father wasn’t so strained.

“Well, it’s good to see you,” he murmurs. “How you been?”

“Been good.” It’s a lie. “Just working and getting by. How’ve you been, Dad?”

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