Page 53 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“The money isn’t linked to the cartel or drugs. It’s honest money earned through book sales. And—”

“Honest money?” I whisper-hiss, barely keeping my volume in check. “The only reason you have a book deal is because you’re a lying criminal who ruined our lives.”

“You’re clearly still upset, which is fine,” he says evenly. “Like I said, I don’t expect forgiveness. I needed to do this for myself.”

Everything in me goes eerily still.

All this time I’ve been stressing about this meeting, I thought I was worried seeing my father would remind me of our good times. He’d maybe apologize to me with tears in his eyes, tell me how much he loves me. That hurting me destroyed him, and he wants to rebuild the father-son bond we lost. I was worried I’d have trouble cutting him off the way I knew I should and ultimately would, and I’d live with that shame.

But I was wrong about the root of my stress. I was actually worried about this—that he wouldn’t break down and tell me he loves me. I was scared to learn he hasn’t been reliving our happy memories like me.

This money and apology aren’t born of our once-close relationship. This is his twelve-step recovery program to free himself of his guilt, burying it under his perceived martyrdom.

“Why me?” I ask, still seeking. Hoping. The little boy who misguidedly loved his dad wanting a sign I’m wrong. “Why give this to me?”

Eyes dry. Face blank. “I knew you were the only one who’d accept it.”

My anger roars back, vicious words clawing at my throat. Bastard. Asshole. Narcissistic egomaniac. Careless. Reckless. Cruel. I want to rail and demand to know how he could dismiss me with cash like this. Why he hasn’t asked one thing about me and my life, or about his other sons. Why he doesn’t lament our relationship and what we lost. I have so many questions, enough anger to have my stomach turning over, and nothing comes out. Not one word. The ugliness twists and contorts, churning my nausea, and I can’t look at him and his dyed hair a second longer.

I snatch the bank paper from the table and give him a placid smile. “So great to see you. Consider yourself forgiven in perpetuity. A lifetime of forgiveness for anything else you ever do, as long as you never contact me again.”

“Lennon, wait. Don’t go. There’s still something—”

I’m gone before he can finish talking, storming then jogging until I’m out the door and safely inside my truck. My rasping breaths come in gulps. My arms shake. I’m no longer out of my body, observing myself from afar. I’m strapped into this vibrating contraption of skin and bones, barely able to hit my truck’s ignition, but I do. I gun it out of there, no destination in mind except get the fuck away.

I drive blindly. The kind of mindless push where you can’t remember if you stop at stoplights or slow down to make turns. Backroads blur by. My throat burns. Gravel crunches under my tires as my mind churns over that sorry excuse for a reunion. I debate stopping to light those bank account details on fire, but that money isn’t just about me. If my family wants it, that’s their choice.

My dashboard flashes with a Bluetooth text from Des. I jam the Read button on the screen. The creepy robot voice says, “Mom finished the book and called a meeting. She has extra tutoring booked for the end of the semester, so it’s in three weeks.”

Immediately, I fumble with my phone and power it off.

My brothers will no doubt organize another group chat. If they start bantering about the myriad of ways they’ll kill our father, I will turn this truck around and run Raymond S. Bower off the road. Gut him like the lying fish he is.

Instead of ending up in jail, I take a left and head to Hood Rock Provincial Park. The calming expanse of cliffs and forest is my safe place. A temporary escape. When all else fails, and the Smash Shack’s milkshakes are too far, nature and climbing are the things that cure me.

* * *

An hour later, I’m at the top of Hood Rock, wearing the warmer vest and cargo pants I keep handy in my truck. I rig my anchor and rope for a self-belay. Once it’s all set, I return to the bottom, hook myself up with my belay, and focus on my breathing.

Slowly, I start to climb.

I don’t know why I can deal with heights, but not cramped spaces. I don’t know how my father can work so hard to forgive himself, but not to know or understand me. Did I fabricate our relationship in my head? Did he actually find our time together tiresome and not fun? Is there something inherently wrong with me that makes me unlovable? Maggie refused to acknowledge me in high school. Mizhir and my high school buddies didn’t keep in touch at college. My father distanced himself at the end of our time together and doesn’t miss our bond.

Inadequacy. That’s the feeling propelling me up this rock face. Unworthiness.

Acquaintance to many, close friend to none.

Toes. Fingers. Grip. Pull.

I move up the climb, pausing to take the slack out of my rope, using leverage and handholds to propel me. Gradually, the cool rock chills the heat rushing in my veins. The burn in my forearms and calves takes over the busyness in my head. I’m nothing but a body in motion in moments like this, defying gravity, leaning on Mother Nature. She’s always here for me. Unconditional acceptance in her sprawling arms.

I sit at the top for a while, the late-November air turning my sweat clammy. I do nothing but breathe and listen. Absorb the stillness and quiet forest chatter, the steady pound of my pulse, but I’m not as relaxed as I hoped. The closure I expected from this meeting feels out of reach. Maybe it was my parting words. Telling my father he’s forgiven in perpetuity wasn’t my strongest comeback. And I hate the money he offered—the temptation of it and how dirty it makes me feel. Not that it matters. What’s done is done. I won’t use that cash, and I never have to miss him again or wonder if he cares.

In a day or two, this gnawing unease will fade.

Once I’m down, I load my truck and hit the road. The sun starts to lower on my drive. By the time I turn down the long drive to my rented farmhouse, I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. I’ll nuke some frozen pizza. Stuff my face, then pass out early and hopefully sleep like the dead.

Just thinking about hitting the hay has me yawning, until I notice a white Jeep in front of my house. I clamp my mouth shut and search my property. It doesn’t take long for me to see red. Specifically, Maggie’s red jacket, her fire-red hair, and her beet-red Die Motherfucker Face as she tries to murder me with her eyes.