“Well, I’m not. I know he’s dead. I know he’s not coming back. I know Homer’s dead and Hannah’s remarried and you and Mom are up to your eyeballs in the inn and everything is going along swimmingly for everyone. I get it.”
“So you’re pissed off that everyone has moved on except for you? You honestly think your mom or me or Hannah will ever truly move on and get over what happened to him? If that’s what you think, you ought to spend a few nights at home so you can see how little sleep I get since my son died because he was stupid enough to follow in my footsteps.”
“Dad . . . That’s not true. He was doing exactly what he wanted to do.”
“Yes, he was, and I know that. I know it all the way down to my bone marrow. But guess what? It still hurts like a son of a bitch anyway. I miss him every damned day. I wake up every morning wondering how I’m supposed to get through another day without him out there somewhere, living his life. Sometimes I like to imagine what he’d be doing now. I always picture him with a bunch of kids trailing behind him, caught up in whatever magic he’d be creating that day.”
When Gavin raised his hand to his face, he realized it was wet with tears.
“And don’t think I can’t remember what an ornery son of a gun he could be, too. Most contrary person I ever knew. Half the time I wanted to knock his block off for being so mouthy and opinionated. The rest of the time I wanted to bow down in awe to him and you, the two amazing human beings your mother and I somehow managed to raise. The two of you together were the most perfect thing in my life, son. Watching you try to carry on without him has been the toughest part of this for me—and your mom.”
Gavin wiped his face, mortified to have broken down in front of his father but riveted by the things he’d said.
“Seeing you with Ella, seeing you happy again, your eyes sparkling with delight the way they used to when he was alive . . . I said to your mother after dinner the night you brought her over the first time that maybe here was someone who could fill at least part of the void, if not all of it.”
She had filled the void, and he was only just now realizing that.
“You can’t let her get away, Gavin,” Bob said, his tone considerably softer now. “You can’t. I honestly fear that if you do, you’ll never get over it.”
His father’s words landed like an arrow full of panic in the vicinity of his battered heart.
“I don’t want to go to that wedding.”
“Why not? And do not say because Dylan’s not your friend.”
“He is my friend.”
“Then why, Gavin? Why, why, why? I talked to Clinton. He was thrilled to be in on the surprise and promised he’d do everything he could to keep things running smoothly here while you’re gone. You have no good reason not to go.”
“I have a very good reason not to go.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what it is?”
“No.” If he told anyone, he would tell Ella. For some strange reason, he thought she might be the only one who would actually understand.
“That lovely young woman went to a lot of trouble and expense to do something nice for you. If you let that go to waste, if you walk away from her, you’re a fool.”
“I guess I’m a fool then.”
“I’m disappointed, Gavin, and I don’t toss that word around lightly.”
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
“Just remember one thing . . . Nothing can’t be fixed. Nothing.”
Gavin didn’t argue with his father, who squeezed his shoulder on the way past him. Some things couldn’t be fixed, no matter how badly you might want to.
“I might be disappointed about this, but I always love you. I’d never want you to think otherwise.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
After his father left, Gavin thought about what he’d said and realized that he had to try to make things right with Ella. He couldn’t leave it like this. Even if she never forgave him for not going on the trip, he had to at least try to explain why he couldn’t go. He grabbed his jacket and was out the door a minute later.
CHAPTER 24
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
—William Shakespeare