The bad ones are bleak, endless winters of trying to reach her and failing.
But the worst dreams—the ones that kill me—are the good ones. The ones where she’s laughing, or running along beside me with her little trot-trot gait, or sprawled out in my bed, taking up every inch of space.
Those are the mornings where I wake up wanting to go to her.
I smile grimly. For the first time in a long time, I feel like my dad can’t get here fast enough. I need a good dose of reality before I do something like chase after Olivia’s fairy tale of happily-ever-after.
I give Lindy a last peck on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before you leave…thank you. For being here.”
There she goes again, getting all watery. She pats my cheek awkwardly.
I watch her leave the kitchen. The second woman in a month to do just that.
I head into the office. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually watching the clock as I sit at my desk, awaiting my father’s arrival. I should have asked Lindy how long ago Mick had left, but that probably would have just made the minutes tick by slower. I should be getting used to it by now. Lately the days have been very long, and not just because it seems like it’s dark until noon and then dark again at three.
The days are long because I’m bored. I’ve racked my brain to remember how I used to fill my time. I’ve tried to rewind to a few months ago, where days and weeks and months passed in a blur. But even whiskey doesn’t help anymore.
The endless solitude is slowly stifling me. I’m letting it.
“Paul.”
I jerk a little from where I’ve been slouched over, clicking on random links on my laptop without actually reading anything. I’ve gotten ridiculously adept at surfing the Web lately. I had no idea there was so much mindless drivel on the Internet just waiting to be absorbed into vacant, bored minds.
“Dad.”
He pauses a little in his stride, giving me a puzzled look. Probably because it’s the first time that my voice has been welcoming. Hell, it’s the first time in many years I’ve called him Dad without a sarcastic edge.
“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he says, taking a seat across the desk like this is a business meeting. I intentionally ignore the little twist in my chest. What the hell was I expecting? A hug? After years of never returning his phone calls and going out of my way to show him how little I needed him?
I shrug.
“How are you?” he asks distractedly as he pulls his briefcase onto the desk and begins rooting around in the papers there.
“I’m good,” I lie. “Great.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says, not looking up. “Oh good, here it is. I know I could have mailed it, but I wanted to see Mick and Lindy off in person, so I figured I might as well stop by.”
“Sure,” I say, refusing to be stung by the fact that he came all this way for his employees. Not for his son. Not for me. Never for me.
You reap what you sow, and all that.
He hands me a piece of paper, and I open it up, figuring it’s going to be some other stipulation or hoop I have to jump through in order to keep living here.
It’s far from it.
I frown. “Is this…”
“The deed to the house,” he says, shutting the briefcase with a click. “You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Three months with a caregiver.”
His voice is completely monotone. If he’s disappointed by how things turned out with Olivia, he doesn’t let on. It’s as though he doesn’t give a shit anymore.
I shake my head. “You’re giving me the house? Just like that?”
“I am.”
“What’s the catch?”
His expression is blank. “No catch.”
“Okay…” I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dad gives an impatient sigh. “The house is paid for. You’re on your own for the upkeep, of course, but you’ll get your inheritance in a month, when you turn twenty-five. I thought you’d be happier.”
I should be happy.