For 100 Reasons (100 3)

I’ve read it a dozen times at least.

I don’t know how many times I’ll have to read his words before they no longer open a cold hollow behind my sternum, one that leaves me feeling oddly bereft.

My father’s not dead yet, but reading his letter—one penned to me under the assumption he would be gone before it reached me—makes me realize just how little I truly knew about him.

Both his cowardice, and, in the end, his courage.

I down the last swallow of whisky as my gaze travels over his jagged handwriting once more.

Dominic,

If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead and this letter, along with your painting, has found its way to you in New York. I realize I’m taking the easy way out here. Waiting to write this until you can’t ask questions or tell me what a pussy I am for keeping all of this from you isn’t fair and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for everything. I guess that’s the main thing I need you to know.

I wasn’t fit to be a father—I doubt I need to tell you that. The thought of having kids scared the piss out me. And then I met your mother and it wasn’t long afterward when she told me she was pregnant. I begged her to abort, but she wouldn’t think of it. Maybe I should’ve told her why I didn’t want to have a child. Hell, maybe I should’ve just packed her up and sent her back to her parents. You both would’ve been better off if I had.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw you in her arms. This pink, squalling thing, as helpless as a kitten. I panicked when she handed you to me. How was I going to protect something so fragile and innocent? I couldn’t even protect myself from my own father. I decided then and there that I could only make sure that my son was tough enough to protect himself. I promised myself I’d raise you to be strong so no one would ever be able to break you, especially not the way I’d been broken.

I don’t recall the first time my father touched me. I only know it didn’t stop until I hit puberty and got big enough to defend myself. About that same time, I worked up the guts to tell my mother what he’d done. Instead of defending me, she put a shotgun under her chin and pulled the trigger, leaving me all alone with him.

He and I worked the boat every day from the time I could hold a fishing rod. That didn’t change after you came along. I saw him looking at you one day. You were maybe seven or eight. I wanted to kill him right then and there. Now I realize I should have. Instead I pushed you away from the family business. To make sure you stayed away, I told you that you were weak. That you were useless.

You weren’t either of those things, son. I was.

Until that night we fought here at the house, I thought you’d been spared. I can’t describe how it felt to hear you say what he’d done to you. I didn’t want to believe it was possible that I failed you. I was too drunk to reel in my horror—or my anger. At him. Myself. Even you, for being so trusting that he was able to get to you too.

I didn’t mean to destroy your art. I never meant to strike you. When I realized what I’d done to you that night, I wanted to die. I knew I couldn’t fix any of that. But I could take care of what I should’ve done years ago.

After you got out of the hospital and moved away, I took him out on the swamp boat. When we got far enough out, I cut the engine and told him I knew what he’d done to you. He didn’t even try to deny it. I had a hunting knife and a cinder block anchor with me on the boat. I dumped his body deep enough in the swamp so the only thing that would find him were the gators. I didn’t worry that anyone would miss him.

I doubt anyone’s going to miss me now that I’m gone, either. Least of all you.

I’m not going to ask for your understanding. I don’t dare hope you’ll ever be able to forgive me. I just want you to know that I really did care, son. I really do love you.

I only wish I’d been man enough to let you know.

Your father

It takes me a moment to absorb those last few lines. I can’t deny the impact they have on me, even now.

When I finally glance up from his letter, I find Avery tenderly watching me. She crosses the cabin to climb into my lap. Wrapping herself around me and holding fast, she is the embodiment of support and affection. I close my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She buries her face in my chest, her voice soft and warm. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” My fingers trace small circles on her back as she cuddles against me. “Each time I read it, I feel less anger toward him. Less of the hurt. I suppose it’s hard to hate someone who’s so much like yourself.”

She lifts up, frowning. “You’re not like him, Nick. You’r

e not a coward—not ever. You’re the bravest man I know. I witnessed that myself this morning when you stood at his bedside. Even at your worst moments, you’re never cruel. Your father wanted to make you cold and tough, unreachable. You’re not any of that, either.”

“I was,” I remind her, thinking back to the years after I first left Florida. I was angry and bitter, concerned only about my own survival. Motivated by my own narcissistic needs. “I was all of those things and worse. Until I found you.”

She’s smiling as I bend my head to kiss her. Laughing as I scoop her into my arms and deposit her gently beneath me on the large sofa.

“You’ve changed everything, Avery. You’ve changed me.”

“Not too much, I hope. I happen to like the man you are.”

I arch a brow. “You like him?”