Page 50 of The Problem with Perfect

“After mom and dad died, you sacrificed everything in your life for me, to make sure I didn’t get separated from you, to make sure I didn’t lose my life, too…and I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about how that was for you. Sure, I thought about how it was forus, the pain and everything…but not about how it was foryou.”

She shakes her head.

“Rusty, I am the last person who should have ever judged you for the way you coped. I should have always had your back, especially if anyone in town ever had something to say about you. And I am so sorry that I didn’t.”

My chest feels tight. I didn’t realize how much I needed my sister to say something like that until she was actually saying it.

“I appreciate it, Abs. I do. I hope you know I’ve never been upset with you about it. I know being part of this town has always been important to you, and I’m sorry I haven’t paid more attention to howmybehavior affected you.”

Abby offers me another piece of bread, and I accept.

“Well, you might not have been upset about it, but Bellamy was upset enough for the both of you.” She smiles at that. “I’ve gotta say, I didn’t really get it when you first told me you were dating her, but now, consider me officially on board the Busty train.”

I bark out a laugh. “What’s a busty train?”

“You know, it’s your two names together. Bellamy and Rusty—Busty.”

Shaking my head, I laugh again. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. Rellamy sounds lame.”

“So don’t call us Rellamy.”

“Well, then what will I call you?”

“Bellamy and Rusty.”

“How about Besty? That’s better than Busty, right?”

I sigh. “This is not going to be a thing.”

“Just you wait. I’m gonna get Bellamy on board and you’re gonna be Besty forever!”

I roll my eyes and shove the second piece of bread in my mouth in one go. My sister is a nutball sometimes, but I love her more than anything.

We talk for a little bit longer, then she leaves, letting me know she and Jackson are going out of town to San Francisco for a quick weekend away.

“Be safe,” I tell her as she walks out to her car.

“Will do, dad,” she teases before dropping down into the driver’s seat.

The first time she jokingly called me dad, I was upset. I know I sit in this weird middle place for her—partial father figure, partial brother—but I’m not her dad, and I reminded her of that back then.

Over the years, though, it’s bothered me less and less, not because I think Iamher father in any way, but because I do look at her as the most precious thing in my life. It’s how I imagine our parents looked at us when they were alive, so now when she says it, I take it as a compliment, as an indicator that I’m loving her the best I can.

And how could that ever be something I let bother me?

* * *

On Friday mornings, after I go for a swim, I spend a few hours at The Pines, the elderly community in Cedar Point, playing cards with a group of men who are in their 70s and 80s. I’ve been doing it fairly consistently since I moved back to town after my parents passed, as a way to honor my dad.

He used to come here once a week for years just to watch movies with his mentor, the man who taught him everything he knew about cars. My father used to tell me the most beautiful thing we can do for the elderly is give them our time, because we have so much of it, and they have so little left.

He was a big softy.

Ever since we broke ground on the brewery project, though, I’ve struggled to make it to the 10am bridge game with Gilbert, Arthur, and Stan. So when I sit down Friday morning at the little card table set up on the back patio of The Pines, I’m unsurprised when Gil gives me the stink eye.

“Look who decided we’re worth his time.” There isn’t any real heat in his voice, but I don’t doubt thereisa tiny bit of hurt.

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