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“That’s what you call disowning your own child?!”
“He had his reasonings for doing what he did when it came to the Simmons even if you don’t understand them,” Clark defends without reluctance. “However, what’s yours?” Another step forward has me fumbling into my desk. “What are your reasons for abandoning your own child?”
“My father-”
“Your father is gone, Weston!”
The proclamation prompts my grip around the bottle to tighten.
“He made his choices! He made his mistakes! He lived his life! And now you must figure out how to do the same!”
Plopping into the chair is mindlessly done.
“Stop wasting all this time wallowing about what he did or didn’t do or what you did or didn’t know about him! Accept that the man you admired, the man you looked up to, was far from perfect.” An almost unbearably heavy breath leaves him. “He was arrogant. And argumentative. And obnoxiously stubborn. He drank too much. He drove too fast. He was shitty at rowing, polo and could barely swing a fucking golf club yet if you asked him or anyone around him, he was a fucking Olympic champion. Your father boasted and bragged and overcompensated like that was the actual sport he was good at.”
Confusion crinkles my forehead and stirs the senses I was trying to keep inactive.
“He missed birthdays and anniversaries and first steps and dates and graduations and a million other things because he chose to put the Wilcox legacy – and all that that entailed – above all else. And that was his choice. Just like it was mine to put you first.”
Throbbing aches begin at my temple.
Travel downward towards my ear.
“I spent more time raising you than I ever did Penny and that was my choice. That is my burden to bear. Just like having to process and deal with what she did to you because of that choice. We all have demons we have to face, Weston.” Unimaginable pain flashes briefly on his face. “Deals with the devil we didn’t see coming. Mountains of mistakes we have to figure out how to climb or conquer or demolish. To be less than perfect…to…not measure up to someone else’s standards, doesn’t make us monsters.” The side of his frame rests against the edge of my desk. “It makes us human.”
Absentmindedly, my grasp on the bottle slightly loosens.
“And no matter how much you drink to forget that,” the object is smoothly shifted out of my possession, “or drink to disprove that,” it lands beside him on a thud, “or drink in hopes of changing that, it doesn’t.” His hands once more fold in front of him. “You are human, Weston.” He allows his head to angle itself to one side. “Just like your father was.”
I wish the words escaping weren’t so weak, “How could he do that to Mom?”
“How can you do this to Bryn?”
My jaw drops to retort when the truth gets lodged in my throat.
Because I’m selfish.
Because the only shit that mattered to me was me.
Not my best friend.
Not my family.
Not the love of my life.
Not even our unborn child.
The only fuck I gave was about my pain and confusion and betrayal.
Mine and only mine.
And there’s this nauseating sensation in the pit of my stomach that tells me my father did the same.
At least I think that’s what that shit is.
It could be I’ve simply given myself alcohol poisoning again.
“How could she forgive him?” is whispered out prior to bile burning up the back of my throat. “How can I?”
