Page 50 of Wildfire
"You're right, Cole. We did. And it was special, and you are special."
"But you're still leaving tomorrow."
He says it like a statement, not a question.
"My car will be ready this afternoon. There is nothing left—"
"Please don't say there is nothing left here for you."
I wince again. I suck at this stuff. Maybe that's why I just ran instead of talking to my family. Because I put my foot in my mouth and hurt people's feelings. I shut down and shut people out to survive. I learned from the best of the best—my dad and brothers aren't exactly prize-winning communicators.
"I'm sorry, that's not what I mean. You are here. And you mean a lot to me." I round the kitchen island to stand next to him. "This place, your mom and Buzz. Hell, even the band! But I have to go. You know that. You've known it all along."
"I have. But I wanted to let you know that…if you decided to stay…I would be…You are welcome to stay. I'd…Damn it! I would love it if you stayed. But I won't ask you to. I won't ask you to give up your dream."
"This feels a little like you're putting everything on me."
"Everythingison you. My cards are on the table. If you want to stay, you are welcome. If you go, I will support you. I won't be mad or feel like you broke any promises or…"
"Snuck out in the middle of the night like I did with my family?"
"You've never really told me that story." He returns to the food and starts prepping again, and I join him. As I cut strawberries, he gets the French toast on the griddle, and I tell him.
"My mom died when I was a kid. And it changed everything. My dad didn't know how to raise three kids on his own, but he tried. He really tried. But I took over much of what she used to do for us because it was part of the family dynamics. Anyway, when I was fifteen, my dad fell at work and broke his back. He became paralyzed. And after he'd been trying to raise us and never dealing with my mom's death, it broke him. It broke his spirit. He was never the same. He started drinking, and he was depressed. I had to take care of him. My brothers both moved out and left me there to deal with it. To deal with him. And when the money ran out, I had to go to work to support us both. So I juggled school, caring for him, and work while my brothers drifted in and out of our lives. Once in a while, they'd drop off a little money or some meat from hunting, but mostly they just dicked me over and made it all my problem."
"They sound like real assholes."
"They are. Anyway, my brother Brian meets this girl, and she starts pressuring him to get his shit together. She wants to get married and start a family. So they move in with me and my dad to save money."
"Did he start helping out with the bills?"
"That would require him to be a grown-ass adult, so no. He didn't. She'd bring home groceries and help with the cooking,so he felt like that was enough since my dad and I were eating that food. But I was paying the mortgage and all the bills."
"Wow. What a prince."
"Anyway, I realized that he would just keep freeloading off me. And he wasn't helping with anything with Dad. Not the medication, bills, repairs on the house, or helping him get around town. Nothing. So I decided to leave. They left me to care for him for seven years with no help and only a few hundred dollars in support. I figured it was my turn to have a life. Especially because I knew if I didn't make the move, no one would hand it to me."
"And then your car broke down a few hours from home."
"Yup. Just my luck, huh?"
"I get it. I mean, I get why you left without having a conversation. It sounds to me like there were a whole bunch of conversations that should have been happening all along leading up to you leaving. So this was just…"
"Normal."
He bites his lip and stares at the griddle while he flips the French toast.
"Renée, it doesn't have to be normal for us."
I lean on my back foot to see his face clearly. I need to read him right now. I need all the cues to tell what is happening.
"What do you mean, Cole?"
"I mean, no matter what—we can talk. We can say what we need to say. I think being open requires a decision—and not just one time. You have to repeatedly decide that you will choose to communicate."
I stare in awe at this man. He seems wise beyond his years.
"Okay. I choose it. Right now."
