Page 91 of Sweet Silver Bells
“Ah, but not to the recently deceased, I assume.”
Hunter turned, looking at his father in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I know you, son. I don’t know much about this Olivia girl, but I know that your heart is now hers. I also know that she doesn’t belong here.”
“Doesn’t belong here?”
His father couldn’t know.
Could he?
“I can’t say I know where it is that she does belong, but she sticks out clearly,” Mark said. “That can’t be a surprise to you, can it? You can’t keep something caged where it doesn’t belong.”
“That something being Olivia?”
Mark nodded, going back to his bike. Hunter listened to him grunt and curse under his breath for a few minutes.
“You think we should leave?” Hunter eventually asked.
“No, son,” Mark said. “I just know that you will. Hell, I probably would, too. There is a lot of pain here for you. I don’t know how you did it, living in that same house for all that time.”
“Mom would miss me too much.” Hunter rubbed the back of his head.
“I think it would be better for her.”
“Better? Would it be better for me to leave?”
“It would be better for you to leave than to keep watching your soul die slowly. You never recovered; you never reinvented your life. It was hard to watch.”
Hunter shook his head, anger building slowly, smoke rising in a hay barrel. “I’m sorry that my grief affected you all so terribly.”
Mark sighed. “I’ve never needed to be a poet, Hunter. I’ve never needed to be great with words in my line of work. Direct has always been best.”
“Just say it, Dad. Whatever it is, please say it so I can continue to hide in the house.”
“I’ll have to follow you in there. Your mother insists we figure out which suit of mine fits you best.”
Mark got up from the motorcycle and started peeling off his gloves, setting them on top of the toolbox.
“Did you finish those brake pads?” Hunter asked.
“Of course not, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Hunter laughed.
“Son.” Mark walked up to him, throwing his arm around Hunter’s shoulder. The touch was awkward; their family was not affectionate in this way, especially not his dad. Mark usually wrote checks that Hunter refused to cash.
The two walked out of the garage, the sun at their backs.
Why aren’t they back yet?
“I just need you to know,” Mark continued, “that it doesn’t matter what you do with your life. No matter what, I support it. I trust that you know what’s best for you.”
The words sank deep. Hunter was surprised at how much the sentiment meant to him. Acceptance and approval were notnormally things Hunter sought from his family because, at the end of the day, he’d had a happy childhood. His trauma came much later.
“Thanks,” Hunter said, looking his father in the eye.
“Let’s go through my closet. You know your mother—she’ll want you looking like a prince,” Mark said, a smile on his face.
