Page 83 of Chasing Blue
I just needed some peace. Just for a few hours, I needed to not be overthinking everything that had happened over the weekend. So, I turned my phone off and tossed it in my bag so I wouldn’t be tempted to look at it.
Today is a new day though, and there’s lots to be done, including, at some stage, facing the voicemails and messages from Jack.
Fucking Jack. The JMC. Who’d have thought all these years later I’d still be tearing myself apart over that boy? At thirty-six, not me, that’s for sure.
After washing my face, cleaning my teeth, and putting on some light makeup so I looked a little less unalive, I pulled on the standard winter uniform of a girl from the Northern beaches: A hoodie, cut-off denim shorts, and my UGGs.
My legs aren’t as tanned as they were when I lived here, nor are they any longer, but they’re actually a lot more toned than they were back then, thanks to all the long walks I take both with Maca and alone, around the beautiful area I now live.
Drawing in a deep breath and bracing myself for what needs to be faced, which includes visiting a funeral home and picking a casket for my mum, as well as now dealing with Palmers Bay’s very own version of Hugh Heffner, Aiden O’Brien.
* * *
He’s sittingat the table in the alfresco area as I hit the family room, but spots me through the screen doors instantly and stands.
I want to hate him, no, I don’t even want to do that. Indifference is what I want to feel. I wish to not care about the issues he left me with, the inadequateness I’ve always felt, the fear of being left, of not being enough. My issues didn’t start with Jack Motherfucking Cole, no, they started with the man moving towards me now, and I hate that my steps falter, I hate that he rushes to open and step through the sliding screen door, and I hate that “Daddy” escapes on a sob from my mouth as he wraps me in his arms.
“I’ve got you, bub, I’ve got you,” he says against my hair as we stand moving from side to side in the same twisting motion I did with my brother at the airport yesterday.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I’m so very sorry.”
I manage to pull myself together a little quicker than I did at the airport, and when I do, I attempt to step away from my dad, but he holds me in place by my shoulders and looks down at me with brown eyes that aren’t as bloodshot as I remember them being.
“Not just for what’s happened to your mum. I’m sorry for everything, Scar. I’ve been a shit dad, the worst, but I’ve sorted myself out. I’ve been sober for almost five years, and working on coming to terms with how badly I treated you. You, your brother, and your mum.”
My eyes dart all over my dad’s face as he talks, noticing that my brother was right, he does look well. I shake my head because I’m not entirely sure how else to react to his words while I’m still trying to process them.
“So, you got sober but didn’t reach out?” I question.
“I didn’t think you’d see me,” my dad states as he finally lets me pull away but places his hand on the small of my back and steers me to the outdoor setting he’d been sitting at.
“Asher’s gone to get coffee,” he adds.
I take a seat, dabbing under my eyes with the cuff of my hoodie. Grateful that my ‘light makeup’ didn’t include mascara.
“You’ve grown up beautiful, Scar. You always were a pretty kid, but you’re a beautiful woman, and I’m just so sorry I’ve not been around to witness you grow.”
This is too much. On top of everything else going on, this is too much. Aiden O’Brien, the drinker, I know how to handle, or, I know how to handleme, aroundhim. But sober Aiden, with his apologies, I don’t know what to do with him.
I stare at him across the table. He’s wearing jeans and a dark blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. At the temples, his dark auburn hair has very little grey, making him look at least ten years younger than his sixty-one years. And with his square jawline, strong, sharp nose, high cheekbones, and those brown eyes, he’s still good-looking.
“Ash says you’ve set up on your own in Melbourne. Running your own interior design firm.”
“It’s a partnership. I’m not a sole trader. I have a business partner . . .” I trail off, wondering why I feel the need to explain to him about the life I’ve created without his input.
“I’d love to come down and visit, have a look at where you’re living now . . .”
“Dad.” I cut him off. “What is this? Why are you here? It’s been fifteen years. You don’t know me, we’re not friends. You’re just someone who left me with so much emotional damage, I don’t even know how to . . . Where I would even begin to . . .” I trail off again, shaking my head and letting out a breath.
“What you put us through, the damage it did to me, I keep it folded. Like a letter, I keep it folded neatly, sealed in an envelope, and tucked away somewhere so deep, I don’t know that I’d ever find it even if I wanted to.”
He has his ankle resting on his knee revealing the square-toed Ariat boots he’s always worn. Lacing his fingers together, he begins moving his thumbs in circles around each other, the exact same way I do when I’m stressed.
His eyes shine, and I’m not sure if they’re just generally watery or actually filled with tears, and I don’t want to care either way, but I do because that’s the person I am. That’s the person he made me.
“I always want to fix things,” I say randomly. “Not things, people. I hate giving up on anyone. I always give them more chances than they deserve when they hurt me because I want to please them, I want to make them happy.”
My dad tilts his head to the side and gives a small sniff as a tear tracks down his cheek.
