Page 33 of Wishes for August
August
Iwas exhausted after the New York trip. I had been back in London for two days and though it was a Saturday night, a night on which I’d usually be keen to head down to the pub or go out dancing, Branson and I had opted for a night in instead. We ordered pizzas and grabbed some beers from the fridge before sitting down to watch the latest episode of Strictly Come Dancing - a little guilty pleasure we shared.
My mind wandered to Caleb. We hadn’t spoken about how this thing between us would work now that we were back in the UK. When we’d arrived at Heathrow, he’d given me a quick kiss before saying he’d see me in the office on Monday and then walking away. He’d texted me a few times since but we had made no plans to see each other over the weekend.
“That was incredible!” Branson exclaimed, his eyes trained on the television. We were watching a couple nail the Paso Doble,Bran lazing on the sofa next to me, his legs heavy on top of mine, when a knock sounded on our apartment door.
“Great, the pizza’s here. I am so fucking hungry right now,” I said as I shoved his legs off of me and hoisted myself from the plush sofa and rounded it to reach the door. Opening the door and expecting to see the pizza guy, my stomach sank as I took in the familiar dark set of eyes in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” My body tensed and I balled my hands into fists, all while fighting the burning that had started in my throat.
“August, it’s um… it’s good to see you,” my motherfucking father said from the threshold of my home. “I’m sorry for showing up like this but, I hoped we could talk?”
My mouth fell open but no words came out, my breathing picked up and my head felt dizzy. My body started to feel off balance like I was floating and couldn’t bring myself back to solid ground. I’d experienced panic attacks before and knew this was how they always started for me, but I’d be damned if I let this man see me fall apart. I tried to steady my breathing, using all the techniques I’d learnt to handle these sorts of moments.
My legs felt weak and unsteady and I pressed my forearm against the wall to centre myself when a warm, solid hand landed on my shoulder, “Aug, you okay?” Branson’s voice sounded like it was coming through a void, like I was lost in a long dark tunnel and could only just make him out in the distance, but his touch grounded me enough to help me get my breathing under control.
“Mr West,” he said to my father, his voice flat. Neither of us had seen him in years but there was no mistaking who he was. The resemblance was striking.
“Branson, how are you?” Patrick, my father, asked my best friend.
“I think you should leave,” Branson demanded, ignoring his niceties and moving in front of me to pull the door shut.
I watched as my dad turned to walk away and I was hit with a crushing feeling of deja vu. Only this time I had the power to stop him. I wasn’t that scared eight year old anymore.
“Why?” I asked and he turned back to face me, one brow raised in question. I didn’t even know what I was asking. Why did he leave? Why did he never come back? Why now? I had so many questions. I once told myself I didn’t care about his reasons. But standing face to face with the man, I knew that was a lie. Maybe it was time to know why I had never been worth staying for.
Shaking my head to clear the haziness that had come over me, I gestured to him to enter my place, but Branson stopped me, halting my father’s movements.
“Are you sure Aug?” he asked, concern etched into his features.
“I think so Bran.” I could read it on his lips that he wanted to say more but he must have seen the seriousness in my expression because he simply nodded and stepped back.
“Okay, I’ll be in my room, call me if you need anything.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze and then retreated down the hall to his room.
Turning to face dear old dad, I gestured for him to come in. In the lounge, he rested uneasily on the edge of the sofa Branson and I had just been sitting on.
Taking a seat on the table opposite him, I picked up my beer and asked, “What are you doing here? You haven’t spoken to me in years and now you’ve made the trip from wherever the fuck it is you live, to see me. You could have called.”
“I’ve tried, you’ve been ignoring all my messages.” He wasn’t wrong so I guess I understood why he resorted to showing up unannounced.
I began peeling the label off the beer bottle, watching as pieces of it fell to my lap and onto the floor, waiting patiently for him to continue.
“I’m sorry, August. I fucked up beyond repair. I know that. I failed at being your father and I regret that every day. I have no excuses for the way I shut you out.”
“Then why did you? I was eight! I had no idea why you left. I sat on that fucking porch for four hours waiting for you to come back, while mum sat and cried in the kitchen.” The words tasted bitter, as bitter as the memory of him driving away that night.
I saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Good. He should feel guilty.
“The truth is, your mum and I were having problems and we tried so hard to keep them from you. She kept saying we could make things work but it was just too hard. When I met Caroline, I was at a low point and she was there and she supported me, and one thing led to another and….”
“I don’t need to hear how you cheated on my mother,” I barked.
“Right, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “I left because I wasn’t happy and I cut you out, I cut you both out because I was selfish and I didn’t think I could combine both my lives without compromising the happiness I’d found. By the time the guilt really set in, Caroline and I were engaged and I convinced myself you were fine. That your mum loved you enough for the both of us.”
His words cut at me like a jagged knife. Tearing into my body, right through to my heart. Eviscerating it all.
I scoffed and stifled a sob. “It’s been eighteen years. Eighteen fucking years. Why now?” The anger seeped through my words but so did the immense sadness his leaving had left inside me.
