Page 56 of She's Like the Wind

“So, she said she loved you, and you ran like someone lit a firecracker under your ass.”

I raised my head and fixed him with a stare full of silent protest.

He huffed and gave a quick shake of his head. “You in love with her?” This time, he wasn’t making a statement.

I remained silent, the question lingering in the space between us.

A low sound escaped him, resonant and disappointed. “You having trouble admitting it?”

Another question.

I stared absentmindedly at the sidewalk, watching shadows stretch lazily over pavement I once whizzed down on my bike as a carefree child.

“I didn’t know I did. Not until I lost her.”

Finally, the truth?

Dad shifted in his old creaking chair. “That’s not love’s fault.”

I grimaced. It had taken being here with my father to finally admit what was inside me because I’d known that I loved her, had felt it, was afraid of it, didn’t want to know it.

He gave me a look that bore the weight of years and honest reflection—one that never missed its mark. “You hurt her.”

Not a question.

“Yeah. Badly. I…was careless. I was…cruel.”

“Why?” he asked, frowning.

“’Cause she scared the fuck out of me, Dad. We were together for nearly a year. And…I wasonlywith her.”

My father rolled his eyes. “Give the boy a medal.”

“Dad, I’ve never been in a monogamous relationship?—”

“Son, you haven’t been in a relationship,” he cut me off. “Lia was a long time ago. You were a boy. And as a boy, you decided that you wouldn’t build a life. You built walls. You decided love was a four-letter word and commitment some crap that assholes like me who’ve been married forever believe in.”

He wasn’t wrong about any of this.

“You still think that if you don’t name something, it can’t be taken from you?” he admonished.

I swallowed hard, the heat in my throat a reminder that these burns came not from the weather outside, but from the realization inside.

“Was she the first since Lia?” he asked gently.

“First that mattered,” I admitted.

His head moved in a slow, solemn nod. “Then you’ve been grieving longer than you even realized.”

When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “Your mama has been haranguing me to talk to you for a while now. But I told her, you’ve got a sensible head on your shoulders, and you’ll get there when you get there.”

I scowled. “I got there.”

Della Walker had once been a nurse. She ran our home with a blend of fierce love, a generous splash of pepper sauce, and a set of rules you were destined to break, even if you hoped otherwise.

Since retiring, she’d started to volunteer and hadtaken up painting—mostly watercolors that danced with soft cityscapes and wildly vibrant bursts of flowers.

These days, when I think about her, I picture her out back (the front porch was Dad’s and the back hers), either tending to her garden and offering the roses her characteristic, frank opinions on the oppressive humidity, or painting said roses.