Page 92 of Chasing Blue
“First time I’ve ever met one of your boyfriends, Scar,” my dad states.
“Not that I’ve had many, but you weren’t exactly around to be introduced,” I offer a response as direct as my dad’s question.
“Fair point,” he responds still giving a slow nod.
When my dad doesn’t argue about my comment, I feel a little pang of guilt for saying it, then instantly wonder why I’m the one feeling guilty when all I’ve spoken is the truth.
“You staying for dinner, Dad?” Asher asks, probably to stop the conversation from taking a turn.
“Love to,” my dad replies. “As long as you lot don’t mind?” His eyes slide to each of us, and Jack fake clears his throat before taking a swig of his beer, obviously feeling the tension that’s suddenly built.
“Wouldn’t have asked if it was a problem,” Ash adds while I remain silent.
I don’t have a problem with my dad having dinner with us, I just don’t plan on making this easy on him.
Childish? Probably.
Do I care? Not even a little bit.
My emotions are all over the place right now, and despite only being half a beer in, my head’s feeling the same.
Ash hooks his phone up to the overhead speakers, and an old Fleetwood Mac song starts to play, instantly taking me back to my childhood.
“I’ve been trying to pick some music for Mum’s service,” Ash tells my dad. “You got any suggestions? I remember there was always music playing in the house, growing up, but I don’t remember her having one particular favourite song or artist.”
“Abba,” my dad says instantly. “Abba was her favourite. She liked the Bee Gees, any kind of disco music. Katie loved to dance . . .”
I look up at my dad the instant I hear him say her name. ‘Katie.’ She was Kate to everyone except him. He only ever called her Katie.
This is just another puzzle piece to my parents’ complicated relationship. Another piece that doesn’t fit, and again, I’m left wondering, is it the pieces that are wrong, or my memories?
My dad’s eyes meet mine, and his lips tremble as he attempts to smile. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I know what we had wasn’t great, I know I treated her appallingly, but . . . I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I remember dancing with her,” I say quietly. Not to him, not to anyone really. It’s just a memory, a good one I feel the need to say out loud.
Jack’s hand finds mine and gives it a squeeze. I take that as silent encouragement to continue talking. “There’s a Luther Vandross song that she used to love. She always held my hands and made me dance with her when it came on. She had a couple of albums of his and used to play them on a I when she was cleaning, cooking lunch, or turn it up really loud if she was out by the pool.”
I don’t have too many happy memories of my mum, but dancing with her is definitely one of them. One that I’d forgotten, and I wonder if I focus too much on the negative, never even attempting to recall the good times.
“Never Too Much,” Ash and my dad say at the same time.
“That’s the one,” I confirm with a smile.
Jack’s arm slides around the back of my chair. He leans in and says into my ear, “Your mum loved to dance, my mum loved to dance, you love to dance. I think Zara would’ve loved to dance.”
I have to close my eyes against the blow from his words as they crash into my heart.
His hand gives mine another squeeze as his nose brushes my cheek.
“Is it okay if I talk about her?” he asks quietly. I nod in response, too scared to attempt words in case I cry.
“You said the doctors made you feel like she didn’t exist, well, she did. She was ours; our little girl and I want to talk about her, remember her.”
My dad and brother have moved over to the pool table, but I can see my brother looking over at me. He gives a chin lift, and I know it’s his way of asking if I’m okay, and I give a nod in response.
“Jack,” my brother calls out.
“Yo,” he says, turning his head towards my brother in response. “Wanna come over to the bar with me? Pick up the food order?”
