Page 78 of Last Love

“He has photos of all of you,” Janet continues talking during her guiding around the house I try not to pay too much attention.

The less I can remember about this place…this moment…the better.

It’s impossible not to sneer at her statement as I notice the framed picture. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why all the photos?”

“Because he loves you,” she states in such a tone I’m tempted to buy it.

And in the same breath it almost hurts my heart for her that she does.

Our arrival in front of a pair of cracked French doors is followed by another hand gesture. “You will find Derek inside most likely reading Frost or Faulkner. He’s quite a fan of classic literature.” The faintest redness tints her cheeks. “I may be to blame for that.” Janet politely folds her fingers together in front of her. “I prefer poetry; however, I am very well versed in Hemingway and Steinbeck and Mary Flannery O'Connor.”

“My girlfriend has me reading poetry, too.” Against my own volition, I grin wide. “More Shel Silverstein and Nikki Giovanni rather than Frost.” An inkling that there’s more to what she’s saying is what prompts me to add, “Guess Collins men will read anything the woman they love asks them too, huh?”

“Sounds that way,” she sweetly says back.

And fifty bucks says my brother has no fucking clue our so-called father is in love with his nurse.

“Please feel free to use the intercom if you need anything, Ryder.”

I present her a nod of understanding and slip inside the dimly lit study.

She shuts the door behind me, and the sound startles him out of the book he was reading. Immediately a whirlwind of emotions cycle through his aged face.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Excitement.

Relief.

Shock again.

He struggles to adjust himself in his wing-back chair near the lit fireplace that has no business being lit during the fucking summer. “Ryder.”

Flinching from hearing him say my name is unconsciously done. Rather than reply with the term, I would like, I merely nod in acknowledgement of being acknowledged.

An awe-filled sigh slips out next. “You came.”

“Noah made me a deal too good to pass up.”

He smiles fondly and shuts the book. “Cash?”

“Freedom.”

An impressed expression slowly shifts onto his face. “You did always want more than money.”

“Still do.”

Unsure of why he’s so full of life considering the fact his body is betraying him every minute he takes a breath, I shove my hands into my jean pockets, eyes anxious to look anywhere but at him. To my surprise, the room is covered in framed photos on the walls and the shelves. Some from what appears to be Christmases from our childhood. Another from the first time Noah and I each joined tee-ball. A tea party we were having with Liz and stuffed animals.  Other frozen in time moments he’s collected are ones I was mentally absent or too fucked up for my own good like Liz’s college graduation and Noah’s wedding. Among my less proud instances are other memories I wasn’t around at all for. My sister’s wedding. One of his milestone birthdays. Shelby’s birth.

The entire room is teeming with so much devotion to a family I’ll probably never feel comfortable calling my own caresses an untouched nerve to numb the dysphoria.

Fuck, I want a smoke.

Need a goddamn smoke.

Just a tiny hit to chill out the increasing anxiousness I can feel all the way down in my fucking toes.

Fumbling around in my pocket to retrieve the pack of orange flavored toothpicks is done at the same time I speak again, “Noah said your dying wish is to see me.”

Adoration lingers on his wrinkled face. “It is.”

“Why?”

An answer appears in his eyes as the object is slipped against my cheek, yet instead of announcing it, he motions towards the bar that’s near the window. “Drink?”

“Drug addict,” I bitterly state the obvious. “Can’t fucking drink.”

“You’re a recovered addict.”

“Yeah, the not so funny thing about that shit is that you’re always recovering. You’re never actually recovered. It’s a never-ending fucking process from the time you choose to get clean until someone puts you in the goddamn ground.”

The man I wish wasn’t my father eagerly nods as though soaking in the information. “I understand.”

“You don’t.”

He momentarily presses his lips together on another, more disheartened nod.

Good.

He should feel like shit for speaking out of line.

And I’m not gonna fucking hold his hand or pretend his sudden encouragement makes a fucking difference in my world.

It doesn’t.

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