Page 145 of The Story of You

With everyone off hunting maybe a ghost, it’s just me and Dad … and a farm’s worth of animals. I squeeze him until Romeo decides to climb up his leg and up his torso. Silas holds the kitten in one meaty hand and pets it with the other.

“I can’t believe how much animals love you. You’re fucking Snow White like you said Mama was.”

He raises an imperial brow. “Why?”

“You’re large and terrifying.”

He smirks and I’m relieved to see it. “Tiny things like something solid.” He rubs noses with the kitten who’s trying to have a conversation with him.

Right. “And big things?”

“Big things need a compass.”

Giulietta’s at my feet, crying for me to pick her up. “C’mere, baby. I’m not as solid as that guy over there, but I’m good at snuggling.”

“You’re not scared,” he says.

I shake my head. “No. I believe in us. We’re going to be okay.”

He frowns, but it’s not meant for me. He’s thinking something. “Come. You were going to get ready. I’m not letting him ruin your birthday. I’m also not letting you too far out of my sight. I’ll read in your bedroom while you shower.”

Calling the dogs and cradling Romeo, he heads toward the stairs.

“You’re that sure it’s him, eh?”

“He sent that box. Whether it was recently, or he left it with someone to send it for him as some kind of a sick torment, it was him.”

When we get to my and Julius’s room, I hand him Giulietta. “Wait,” he calls before I disappear into the ensuite. “I promised you my very best. Downstairs wasn’t it. I’m sorry, Eaglet.”

“I know we joke about you being the Terminator—and most of the time you are—but you’re actually a human. I think you did well, considering.”

“I’m not doing well. It’s taking all my willpower not to stuff you in my Monte Carlo and drive to Canada.”

“Nah. That sounds about right. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be you. I want you to be you, Dad.”

He nods. “I am me. Go shower. Don’t take long.”

“I won’t, Papa.”

“Papa?”

“Trying it out. Julius uses it. I’m seeing which I like better.”

“And?”

“Dad. You’re definitely Dad.” Now’s my chance. I recall all the words he wrote to me yesterday. “I know I was just a kid, but I paid more attention to what you said rather than what you did. I see everything now.”

“Youwerejust a kid, Oliver. It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but it’s not yours either. You were going through hell. That you managed to raise someone so well-adjusted, um, except for some very minor things, is beyond expectation.”

“I did nothing of the sort. Why do you think you saw so many therapists? You taught me everything I know about talking things through rather than jumping straight to murder.”

“How about we chalk it up to that we were both a little dense?”

His demeanor darkens. “No, Oliver.”

“All right, all right, take all the blame,” I mutter as I close in on the ensuite bathroom door. “But you leave me no choice … I’m telling Lakshan on you!”