Page 7 of And Forever
After getting home and tucking Winona into her own bed, Ada offered to stay, but I told her I needed to be alone. She looked guilty when she got in her car to drive back to town, where she lives. None of this is Ada’s fault, though.
Wilder is here. Likely in the bunkhouse a quarter mile down the service road, and everyone knew about it but me.
My parentsplannedit this way.
Just as the inky blue outside the window shifts to a smokey gray, I abandon the half-drunk mug and pick up Winona’s baby monitor. When I get to the back mud room, I grab a jacket from a hook before heading out the back door. It’s a short fifty yards to the main house. From the soft glow through the windows, someone is awake.
The side door is never locked, so I walk through it into the living room. The comforting smell of fresh coffee and my father’saftershave permeate the space. My dad was always the earliest riser, which is exactly what I was counting on.
“Hey, Char, you’re up early this morning. Jet lag?” He gives me a warm smile when I pull out a stool at the counter before pulling a second mug from the cabinet. He sets about fixing my mug as I put Winona’s monitor on the counter. The dull sound of her white noise machine blends with the spoons stirring and the refrigerator opening and closing. I watch in silence as Dad hums a little under his breath, focused on the task at hand and likely thinking through all the others that need to be accomplished today. “Can’t wait to hear about your trip.”
“Dad.”
“Don’t worry,” he calls over his shoulder without looking at me. He picks up a bottle of familiar creamer, shaking it. “I got the creamer you like.”
“Dad,” I try again, my voice firmer. His movements still, and he lets out a long exhale. He turns away from the counter to come around the island and sit next to me. His head hangs after he places my coffee in front of me. He knows why I’m in their kitchen this morning, and it isn’t to regale him with stories of Winona helping Mary plant flowers in her garden or watching too many episodes ofBlueyon the airplane.
I’m not sure how angry I am with him because there are too many other feelings swirling around, tempering it. Relief. Fear. Hope. Uncertainty. I go with the question I haven’t stopped thinking since Ada dropped the bomb on me in the car last night.
“Why?”
“Because second chances are even rarer than once-in-a-lifetime feelings.”
He lifts his head, face twisted with contrition. I wrap my hands around my mug for something to do as I consider his words.
“Wilder had every opportunity to claim his second chance.All this time, but he never did.” I watch the steam rise from the tan surface of my coffee.
“I’m not just talking about Wilder—even if I think his knees are already bruised from the groveling he knows you’re owed.” Dad gives me a sad smile. “Your mom and I, we didn’t make the right choices when it came to you. We thought if we planned your future, you wouldn’t possibly want for anything else. But we were wrong.” His throat bobs with the thick swallow he takes, and I stare in wonder as tears glaze his eyes. He grunts and shuts his eyes tight like his will alone is enough to keep them from falling. One slips free when he goes on, “We saw it when you came home during that season; this beautiful, vibrant, independent woman. We knew we were wrong, but we didn’t know how to fix it. And then everything changed so fast.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledge. He nods, his large, calloused hand covering my own.
“It has taken watching you as a mother to realize we held on too tight. Controlled you too much. You let that little girl be every single ounce of herself. You encourage her curiosity, support her interests, and teach her along the way that she is enough just as she is.”
My nose tingles from the tears that prickle in the back of my eyes when he talks about Winona. Just like my dad, I grunt to try and chase them away.
“We’re not saying that Wilder is the answer to our mistakes. We know you might not be able to forgive him?—”
“I neverneededto forgive him,” I cut him off, my eyebrows knitting in the middle. “I’m not going to hold things he said while in unimaginable pain against him. I didn’t the day he said them. I don’t now.”
Dad squeezes my hand. I don’t think he really understands why forgiveness has never been something Wilder should try to earn from me. But maybe he’s content to let that be something between Wilder and me.
“All right.” Dad pushes through the moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you we were hiring him.”
“And playing matchmaker in the process?” I let a little of my anger slip through, content to hold on to the easy emotion. It feels safer than trying to untangle the dense apology my dad is throwing out in the dawn light.
“He is Winnie Girl’s father. I couldn’t imagine going my whole life without knowing you.”
“But he could have.” I don’t bother to stop the tear that falls with that truth. “He made that choice. He didn’t choose me.”
“I think he’s trying now, Char.” Dad swipes his thumb along my cheek, erasing the salty track left behind, and cradles me gently. It’s the secure, reassuring hold of a parent trying to soak up all their child’s hurt. I reach my own hand up to hold his wrist, a silent communication that I’m not going to break apart. One soft pat against my cheek and Dad drops his hand. “I’ve spent the last week with him. I don’t know what he was like before, but I get the sense that he’s a changed man. He didn’t like that we kept you in the dark.”
I give a brief hum in acknowledgment. “But he knew he was taking the job here?”
“Like I said.” My dad finally picks up his cup of coffee, pulling a long sip from it. “He’s trying.”
I sniffle once, tracing a finger around the rim of the coffee cup. Dad’s silent beside me, quietly giving me the time to process. “Dad?” I ask, and he tilts his head, listening. “Did you tell him about Win?”
“No.”
