Page 96 of October
His gaze flickered away, jaw tightening. "Dad," he said finally, voice rough. "He's in the hospital. Beth went to see him, but apparently it didn't go well. Mum... refuses to go until I talk to her, and I don't want that. I don't know how to face either of them right now."
I paused, hands resting on a little pink cardigan, looking up at him. His face was pale, tired, something vulnerable showing through the lines I'd learned by heart over the years.
He went on, words coming out rough and uneven, like they'd been carried too long.
"I want to focus on us," he said. "On you. On the kids. I don't want to keep orbiting around him. But he's my father, and now he's alone, sick, lying in a hospital bed because of everything he built catching up to him... and I don't know if it's heart or cowardice that makes me still care."
I reached across the table, my hand warm over his. "Thomas... if you need that closure, then go," I said softly. "Go talk to himone last time, for yourself, for your own peace and if you don't, if it would only open wounds that haven't healed—then it's okay to leave it alone too. You don't owe him anything. Do what you need to do, for yourself, and for us. What did your therapist say?"
His gaze flickered up to mine, eyes dark with something like relief and fear tangled together.
"That it's normal to struggle with those feelings, love, guilt, hatred, all mixed together. I don't have to force myself to feel only one thing. Take my time. I am allowed to," he replied gently.
For a breath, I didn't speak. I could see it all on his face: love tangled up with anger, guilt that never quite let go, the small boy he used to be still asking to be seen. I knew there was nothing perfect I could say to fix it. So instead, I did the only thing that felt true: I reached out, warm hand over his, thumb brushing lightly against the edge of his wrist.
He looked down at our joined hands across the table, and I saw something in his shoulders loosen, just a little. For a few breaths, we sat like that in the soft midday light, surrounded by the low hum of clinking glasses and quiet conversation.
**********
Beth had texted me earlier in the week:"You need a night off. August and I insist. No arguments."
I hadn't realised quite how much I needed it until we were already halfway through our second round of drinks , the sweet, slightly cheap kind that comes in chipped glasses, sticky at the rims. Laughter from other tables blurred softly aroundus, mixing with the scent of fried calamari, old wood, and sea breeze.
The place was small, paint peeling in places, but it pulsed with life: fairy lights sagging overhead, shadows dancing across walls scribbled with marker hearts and names. August showed up late, naturally, hair wind-tangled, her coat slung carelessly over one shoulder, the collar of her shirt brushing the ink on her collarbone. The tattoos suited her: a little fierce, a little defiant, nothing like the softer August I remembered from before. For a second, I wondered if it was that cheating ex who carved out this new edge in her, leaving something that still burned quietly behind her easy smile.
"Sorry, traffic," she announced dramatically, dropping into her chair. "But it's fine because now I'm here, so we can officially begin."
Beth snorted. "We were perfectly capable of beginning without you."
August arched an eyebrow. "Yes, but it wouldn't have been asfunny— or as pretty."
Beth raised her glass in mock salute. "Touché."
For a while it was easy, laughter tumbling over itself, plates of fries disappearing faster than we'd admit. We traded stories about impossible bosses, about Jimmy's recent growth spurt that left every single pair of jeans embarrassingly too short. Then Beth, wine glass tilted lazily between her fingers, started telling stories about her travels.
"Lisbon," she began, eyes dancing, "I stayed in this hostel where the walls were so thin, I could hear the French couple nextdoor arguingandmaking up, in very graphic details, three times a night. By the second night, I was practically narrating it to myself like a soap opera:'Ah, now she's throwing the shoe... oh wait, now she's forgiven him. Ah, that was fast.'"
August burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink. "Beth!"
"And Morocco," Beth went on, waving a hand, "overnight train, top bunk, some poor guy fell on me at 3 a.m. I panicked and offered him a cookie. Don't ask why, it felt polite."
"Oh my God," I managed, wiping tears of laughter. "Did he take it?"
"He did," Beth said proudly. "Then apologised every five minutes until sunrise. Best travel friend I never saw again."
August, face still flushed from laughing, turned sly. "Alright, enough about strange men, what about familiar ones? Tell us about high school. What were those two like?" She pointed at me with a wicked grin.
Beth smirked, leaning back. "Oh, October? Everyone knew. She wasridiculouslyobvious about Thomas. Changed her route between classes to 'accidentally' bump into him. Signed up for the chess club for two weeks and didn't even know the pieces."
"Hey!" I protested, my face burning. "I tried!"
Beth ignored me, eyes warm. "And you know what? Back then, we all thought it was October chasing him. But now... when I look back? Thomas was just as bad, only quieter. Subtle. He'd sit where he could see her across the courtyard. Once, she forgot her lunch, and he claimed he 'wasn't hungry' so she'd take his."
August's grin widened. "Wait, wait... so stoic Thomas was actually soft?"
"Oh, painfully," Beth said, laughing. "One time, October caught a cold, and Thomas went to every class she had that day to hand-deliver tissues. Didn't say a word, just put them on her desk and walked off."
My heart did a strange, small ache at the memory — half-forgotten moments that meant nothing and everything. August leaned closer, chin in hand. "So you two were basically doomed from the start?"
