Page 101 of The Story of You

Damn right he made an impact. He was it. Fucking, Silas.How could you not see that you’re it for me, Dad? My parent. My real parent. I was born and he just loved me.

“For my birthday, I’d like to do something as a family this year,” I said to Aleksander over dinner as was appropriate according to the “domestic discipline handbooks”.

Aleksander didn’t like that. I knew he wouldn’t, and I didn’t care. “Sweetheart. I’ve already made plans for your birthday. They are not child friendly.”

I didn’t respond, but he knew I was disappointed. I sipped the wine I’d poured for myself with dinner. I ate without speaking to him unless he spoke to me. When dinner was over, I released Oliver to play in the kitchen wild while I cleaned up. I cleared the dishes, readied myself to work at the sink, and resolutely not watch a movie with him once Oliver was in bed.

Aleksander slid behind me, slipping his arms underneath mine and planting his hands flat on my chest. I couldn’t resist and sunk into him.

“How do you feel about two parties? One with the three of us and the other with the plans I’ve already made?

“You would do that for me?”

“I would. Tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen.”

All I wanted was a cake the three of us could share together so Oliver would have the opportunity to sing happy birthday to me and blow out candles. He went beyond that, buying a gift for me from Oliver that he’d gotten Oliver to give me—one of the few times he interacted with Oliver. Watching nearly four-year-old Oliver bouncing with delight about the gift he got to give me made my heart squeeze and soar.

“Baba, this is from me. We can see what it is?”

It was probably best he didn’t know. He would have told me. “Will you help me open it, Eaglet?”

Oliver ripped the paper open. Inside was a framed photo of me and Oliver. It was from our trip to Barbados the night we were on the lanai with our friends. Oliver was asleep in my arms with his crocheted rainbow baby blanket strewn across us, being used as a mosquito protectant—it was too hot for blankets. The only way to describe me was serene. I was the epitome of content.

Oliver climbed into my lap. “Want to see it, Baba.”

“Look. It’s me and you, Eaglet.” Oliver stared at the photo, awe widening his blue eyes. “Where did you get this, Aleksander?”

“I asked around. Jones had taken it at some point during the night. Sarah was excited they could send that. Now my gift will pale in comparison.”

Two of our Barbados friends.

“What’s your gift?”

“Tickets to Metallica.”

I’d been dying to see Metallica. “No. Doesn’t pale in the least. Different kinds of happiness. And, while Oliver can count to fifty, I know I didn’t teach him how to pick up the mail. Thank you, Aleksander. This means a lot.”

“Anything for you.”

“Except let me go.”

“Except that.”

I don’t feel any bitterness in the statement. Maybe there is and I’m reading it wrong. I feel like there should be.

It sounds more like a love letter.

They have plans to move away, somewhere nobody will know them. Silas has his own plans to convince Aleksander to get Darry back and my mind drifts to … God, what would that have been like? From some of the other things Silas has written here, Aleksander was going to forsake his paternity to me altogether. They were going to raise me as just Silas’s.

Fine with me. If I could remove the DNA linking me to Aleksander, I would. Ugh. But then I wouldn’t be linked that way to Darry and Silas either. Okay then. Their plan was fine as far as that terrible plan goes. I’m Silas’s. Just Silas’s. Aleksander can continue to ignore me for eternity—in this fucked up fictitious scenario.

I think it was always going to crumble though. Aleksander can’t stand that he’s second place and Silas says this after a heated interaction:

That was the first rock thrown at our glass house … or maybe it was the second. The rocks were always Oliver. Only he could shatter the illusion.

The clouds that had settled over my brain were disrupted and dispersed as a foggy haze. It was a reminder of the ugly way we began, which most would never forgive him for. But I was a foolish, foolish young man.

And then this: