Page 25 of Playing Hard to Hate

DUSTIN

PRESENT

I had more regrets than a person should live with. I’d been a terrible older brother to Tatum, never there for her when she needed someone to lean on, and a terrible son to our mother.

I had been selfish for far too long, and some of those regrets I would live with for the rest of my life.

There was no way to undo the past, although I dreamed of it often.

I should have visited them. I should have protected Tatum.

I could have made Dad do better. I should have, could have, but I didn’t.

And at the end of the day, my little sister was so past the point of broken, I wondered if she’d suffer the same fate as our mother.

Dad had dished out the wonderful news to me about his prostate cancer two weeks ago. I’d sat on the news for a week before telling Tate. I’d wondered if this was his karma for the way he treated all of us. I hated myself the second I thought it. No one should have to go through cancer.

I wondered how his wife and his two daughters, whom he shared with her, were taking the news.

Tate had missed out on having a father, on a loving family, on normalcy.

While these two girls—girls I had come to love over the years—had everything she didn’t.

A stable home life. Food on the table every single night.

Two parents who loved each other. An older brother who came by for dinner every Saturday.

More toys than they could ever want. Anything they desired they had. They were spoiled rotten.

What did Tate have? A small two-bedroom condo. Her best friend Millie. And she had her career, a career that could go up in flames at any given moment. There were just so many variables that could fail. And then what? What would happen to her?

I was riddled with guilt for never being there, and at dinner tonight, I had seen just how shattered she truly was and the stupid facade she had put on for me and the rest of the world to see.

But that’s all it was. A facade, because she’d never truly mourned the loss of our mom.

She’d never let go of her sheer disappointment in our dad. And me, well, she just plain hated me.

Without thinking, I dropped a bomb—one I’d been holding on to for far too long.

She needed to know that it was now or never to mend things with Dad.

For her sake, I hope they did. Otherwise, she, too, might live with regrets that would rot inside her brain for years to come.

I wanted to save her from the same fate.

She paced the small living room. I wasn’t sure you could even call it that because her living room was the size of my bathroom at home. Another fucking thing that grated my nerves is how little I had given her over the years when I had so much.

The news report on the TV had seemed to piss her off. She mumbled things about unfairness, picked up her phone, and started to type out a text, then threw it onto the sofa while I watched and waited.

She could have died last night. I almost lost my opportunity to fix things .

“I’m waiting, Dustin,” she gritted out, not bothering to look at me. “Is he going to die?”

“They don’t know yet. It’s very early stages right now. Dad told me that the cancer is aggressive, and they want to start some type of treatment. He was given a few options. He’s going to start with radiation therapy.”

“If that doesn’t work?” she pressed.

“Hormone therapy.” She raised her brows, finally looking at me. “If that is unsuccessful, then they will try chemo, and worst case is they will have to do a prostatectomy.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

I didn’t have an answer to that question. I had learned everything I could about prostate cancer and was pretty hopeful that Dad would pull through this without having organ failure, but I had no idea why he hadn’t picked up the phone and told his daughter.

“I know he has my number, Dustin. I know you tell him all about me. But what I don’t know is why he’s never picked up the phone and called me, not even when he found out he has cancer.”

“He didn’t want me to tell you.”

She sits back and lets out a deep breath. “Then why did you?”

“You deserved to know.”

“Well, I know now. Are you going to leave tomorrow?”

I shook my head, lacing my fingers together and looking down at my sock-clad feet.

“I would like to fix things between us.” The words were like sandpaper against my throat. I hated admitting defeat.

“I don’t think we’ll ever have a normal relationship. Too much has happened,” she said softly, the truth in her words hanging heavily between us .

“I would like to try,” I insisted, even though my gut churned, and I wanted to leave at her hesitation.

“I usually like to watch Mom’s favorite movie tonight. Popcorn?” she asked, heading for the kitchen and pulling out a pot, some olive oil, and popcorn kernels.

“I’d love some. What was her favorite movie?”

“ Pretty Woman .”