Now here I sit, watching as Zed loops his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side. I can’t even look away. I’m stuck watching them. Maybe I’m punishing myself, maybe not, but either way, I can’t stop staring at the way she leans into him and he whispers something in her ear. The way his thoughtful expression somehow calms her and she sighs, nodding once, and he smiles at her.
Someone slides in next to me, temporarily interrupting my self-torture.
“We’re nearly late . . . Hardin, why are you sitting back here?” Landon asks.
My father . . . Ken, sits down next to him, while Karen takes it upon herself to walk to the front of the small church to approach Tessa.
“You may as well go up there, too. The front row is only for people who Tessa can stand,” I complain, glancing at the line of people, who, from Carol to Noah, I can’t stand.
And that includes Tessa. I love her, but I can’t stand being so close to her while she’s comforted by Zed. He doesn’t know her the way I do; he doesn’t deserve to be sitting next to her right now.
“Stop that. She can ‘stand’ you,” Landon says. “This is her father’s funeral, try to remember that.”
I catch my father—fuck—Ken, I catch Ken staring at me.
He’s not even my father. I knew this, I’ve known for the last week, but now that he’s in front of me, it’s like I’m finding out for the first time again. I should tell him right now, I should affirm his longtime suspicions and just let the truth out about my mum and Vance. I should tell him right here, right now, and let him feel as fucking disappointed as I was. Was I disappointed? I don’t know for sure; I was mad. I still am mad, but that’s about as far as I’ve gotten.
“How are you feeling, son?” His arm reaches across Landon to rest his hand on my shoulder.
Tell him. I should tell him. “I’m fine.” I shrug, wondering why my mouth won’t cooperate with my mind and just say the words. Like I always say, misery loves company, and I’m as miserable as it gets.
“I’m sorry about all of this, I should have called the facility more. I promise you that I had checked on him, Hardin. I did, and I had no clue that he left until it was too late. I’m sorry.” The disappointment in Ken’s eyes silences me from forcing him to join my pity party. “I’m sorry that I always fail you.”
My eyes meet his and I nod, deciding in this moment that he doesn’t need to know. Not right now. “It’s not your fault,” I quietly remark.
I can feel Tessa’s eyes on me, calling my attention from so many feet away. Her head is turned toward me, and Zed’s arm is no longer around her shoulders. She’s staring at me, the way I was her, and I grip the wooden pew with everything I have, to restrain myself from rushing across the church to her.
“Either way, I’m sorry,” Ken says and removes his hand from my shoulder. His brown eyes are glossy, like Landon’s.
“It’s fine,” I mumble, still focusing on the gray eyes holding mine.
“Just go up there, she needs you,” Landon suggests, his voice soft.
I ignore him and wait for her to give me some sort of signal, any tiny, little fragment of emotion to show me that she does need me. I will be next to her in seconds.
The preacher steps to the podium, and she turns away from me without beckoning me to her, without a real indication that she was actually seeing me at all.
But before I can feel too sorry for myself, Karen smiles down at Zed and he slides down, allowing her to take the seat next to Tessa.
Chapter thirty-four
TESSA
I give another fake smile to another faceless stranger and move on to the next, thanking each of them for attending. The funeral was short; apparently this church doesn’t take kindly to celebrating the life of an addict. A few stiff words and phony praises were given, and that was that.
Only a few more people; a few more simulated thanks and forced emotions as condolences are given. If I hear what a great man my father was one more time, I think I’ll scream. I think I’ll scream right in the middle of this church, in front of all my mother’s judgmental friends. Many of them have never even met Richard Young. Why are they here, and what lies has my mother told them about my father if they are praising him?
It’s not that I don’t think my father was a good man. I didn’t know him well enough to judge his character accurately. But I do know the facts, and the facts are that he left me and my mother when I was a child, and he only came back into my life a few months ago by chance. If I hadn’t been with Hardin at that tattoo parlor, chances are I would never have seen him again.
He didn’t want to be in my life. He didn’t want to be a father or a husband. He wanted to live his own life and make choices that revolved around him and him alone. That’s fine, it is, but I can’t understand it. I can’t understand why he would run away from his responsibilities only to live the life of a drug addict. I remember how I felt when Hardin mentioned my father’s drug use; I couldn’t believe it. Why was I so accepting of his being an alcoholic, but not a drug addict? I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I think I was trying to make him better, in my mind. I’m slowly realizing that, like Hardin always says, I’m naïve. I’m naïve and foolish to keep trying to find the good in people when all they do in return is prove me wrong. I’m always proven wrong, and I’m sick of it.
“The ladies want to come over to the house when we leave here, so I need you to help prepare for that as soon as we get home,” my mother says after the last hug is given.