Page 19 of Collision

Ben

Avoiding my father was a skill; one I mastered at a young age - mostly thanks to Mom’s insistence that I spent time with Jamie out of the house. So college, in many ways, became an extension of this. I rarely return to the city, finding perfect excuses in study groups, part time work and summer internships to keep me away, and when I do come home it’s only for a weekend every couple of months.

It works for me, this arrangement.

My father wasn’t often a cruel man, but when he was it was as if another person took over his home. I know that now, but I had seen the way a person could change and I ran from it. I’m still running from it.

In public, Richard Haston carved a reputation for my family to be proud of, a legacy to leave behind for future generations, and he spent many nights reminding me I was not enough. I would never be enough. No amount of education or effort or time would change that. And now, at twenty-one, I finally learned that ‘too little, too late’ has a bitter taste.

I’m proud of youis a lie that I will never un-hear.

Itfeelslikehourshave passed where I stand, shaking the hands of people I’ve never met and never heard of.

My mother is a stone wall beside me - calm and strong - never letting a stray sob escape her lips despite the fact I can see she’s breaking. Even after everything, she’s still breaking for him.

I know my eyes are glassy and distant, no doubt a side effect of draining good, old Richard’s best bottle of Scotch last night, and my head is swimming with the words burned into my mind from a conversation with a dying man.

“I’m not proud of you,”I had responded.“I’m not proud to be your son.”

With the nastiness of our final conversation wrapped around my throat and threatening to empty the contents of my stomach right here, in front of everyone, I feel like I’m blind to the people in front of me. I am blind until she steps forwards. Because when she steps forwards, it’s like she brings in light.

In the three years since I last saw her she’s gotten taller and less awkward. She’s slim still, but her figure has changed too. Where she had been a beanpole at fifteen, eighteen year old Mikaela is all curves. She has beautiful curves. Her hair, a shock of blonde curls, frame her slightly rounded cheeks and wide eyes and her smile is kind. Even in the darkness of a funeral there is a softness to her.A softness in her smile. A softness in the way she holds on to her mother and glances at the devastation around us.

I look to Elizabeth and my chest tightens. She seems frail from another round of treatment, finished last week if I remember Jamie’s last message correctly.And then Mikaela speaks and I am pulled straight back to how good she looks.

“Jamie couldn’t get back for the funeral,” Mik tells me what I already know. “He’ll be home tomorrow night though.” She smiles at me, a real smile - not one of those sympathetic smiles everyone else perfected in the car ride to the church - and somehow, behind the haze of it all, I find some focus. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

She squeezes my hand gently before going to let go, pausing when I tighten my grip on her and hold her in place.

Her simple offer is the most sincere thing anyone has said to me since he died and I throw my words at her without thinking; without caring. “Will you sit up front?”

As I stare at her, seeking comfort in her, she nods and my heart does a jittery thump.

Slowly, she wraps an arm around her mother’s frame and guides her to the pews, taking a seat in the second row, directly behind where I will eventually sit.

Sheplacesherhandon my shoulder at the start of the service and I reach up to hold it.

I hold on to her until it’s over.

I hold on to her until every last remnant of my father is gone.

I’mwallowing.

Jamie and I are sitting in a dark corner of some local bar neither of us really like and he’s letting me drown my sorrows in a stormy silence.

Jamie’s good like that.

I’m not really sure how long we’ve been here when she walks in, but suddenly my whole body is on high alert.

Mikaela’s hair is scraped back straight and her eyes are darkened with make-up. It’s like her laugh fills the space before she really enters and I lean forwards just a fraction as she grins. She glances around the room, her friends looking back at the complacent security guard in astonishment, and even though I know she’s seen me - even though our eyes met for the smallest moment - she skims right past me.

A tight black dress clings to her body, cut a little too low to be innocent, and the way she slips into the room with an air of cool countenance and control intrigues me.

This is not the first time Mikaela Wilcox has been here.

My eyes follow her as she makes her way to the bar, leaning forwards to shout over the noise into the barman’s ear, and I shift in my seat; itching to walk over to her. To talk to her.

Part of me wants to drape my jacket over her shoulders and march her out of here: remind her she is underage and over-exposed. Another part of me - a part that fucking terrifies me - wants to pull her over to the booth. It wants to sit with her all night; talk to her all night. I’d leave Jamie behind to flirt with the bar staff just to see her smiling at me.

---