Page 341 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Not now, Pa.”
He chuckles. “Not now, huh?”
I scrub my hands over my face. “Where did you even come from?”
“I spotted you and Jade in some heated words.”
“Spotted or overheard? On purpose?”
“I don’t eavesdrop.”
I snort. “Can’t preach these lies to me. So, if you’ll step aside, I do have a date with that tree, then I’m going to go rehang the banner before it falls on our country singer.”
He steps sideways with me, his brows furrowed. “You don’t like heights.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” The words snap out of me. “And when did that start, Pa? Tell me, why don’t I like heights?”
“I don’t know, son.”
“Really? You don’t know? You can’t put the timelines together?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was fine until the night you fell off the loft.”
He stares at me, confusion playing in his eyes.
“The night Mr. Fox pushed you.”
He really stares at me now, and his face twists into understanding and regret.
“Yeah. I was there. I saw it. Saw the whole thing. The argument and then the punches. I heard the crack and crushing of your body hitting the toolbox.” My voice is no longer laced with anger.
It’s like the little child in me is tearing past all the walls I’ve used to push down in this moment.
“I watched you lie there lifeless while he called for an ambulance. And I watched him leave as the medics walked in.”
“Hart, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, I blame you and Mr. Fox for this fear. It’s pretty difficult to watch the family enemy shove your father off a loft and almost kill him.”
“I don’t know what to say. You should’ve talked to me. Or your mother.” Remorse now fills his eyes like that’ll make it all better.
“You should’ve talked to the authorities.” I get all up in his face. “You didn’t even charge him. You didn’t tell a single soul he was responsible.”
“He was hurting.”
“I was hurting!”
He looks away.
“No, no, no. You don’t get to look away from me. You almost died, and I carried that guilt. I cut things off with Jade. I got hit on the field. I lost everything because of that fucking fall.”
When he finally looks at me, it’s not anger, not even defense. It’s guilt, raw and heavy, sitting behind his eyes like it’s been there for years.
His jaw works as if he’s chewing on words he can’t spit out, and pain lives in the lines around his mouth, as well as in the way his shoulders sag, as if he’s been holding something up too long.
That look? It’s a man who remembers every second of that night and still wakes up to it.
