Take Me with You (Take Me #2)(84)

“Yes. It was rock-bottom for me. It’s what made me decide to go to therapy. After what I’d done, I knew I couldn’t leave you all alone without either parent. So, I want you to know I’ll be here, trying to make it up to you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

“Yeah,” I said, reeling slightly from the stark apology. “So, what exactly is this? What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you? Grant, I’m your father. I want to get to know you. Is that so hard to believe?”

It actually was. How could the person who had said and done such horrible things think one heartfelt apology and getting to know me would change anything? That wasn’t f*cking reality.

Then, Ari’s words from the first day when I’d seen my dad nagged at me.

“If you can change as much as you have in the past six months with me, it’s not inconceivable to think he’s changed in thirteen years.”

Fine, Ari. Fine.

“It is hard for me to believe. The last time we spoke before you went to prison, you said you were going to get me for what I did to you,” I finally said.

“I…I never said that,” he said. His eyes suddenly looked confused and unfocused.

“Yes, you did. I’ve been thinking about that moment every day for thirteen years. I didn’t suddenly make up what you said.”

My father shook his head and closed his eyes. “I don’t…I don’t remember saying anything like that. Is that what made you think I was going to harm you when I came to your house?”

I nodded. I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He couldn’t remember threatening my life?

“My God,” he said, covering his mouth. “I’ve spent the last thirteen years trying to do everything I can to better myself and get out to see you, and you’ve spent them thinking I was going to kill you at the first opportunity.”

“What was I supposed to think?” I asked. Suddenly, I was more frustrated than ever. All this time, I’d had to deal with the guilt and pain on my own. Now, my father was saying that all of it was f*cking pointless. “You never tried to contact me. You never apologized or tried to explain.”

“You’re right. I am guilty of that.”

And he looked guilty—his head hung low to his chest, his mouth drawn, his shoulders sagged.

“I wrote you letters in prison. But I couldn’t send them. For a long time, I thought I wasn’t good enough to be a father for you. Randy was taking care of you. You deserved the best, but I was too messed up to be that for you. Hell, I’m still not anywhere close. But it made me try harder. My therapist said I should send them to you once I’d made sufficient progress, but by then, it felt…too late. It wasn’t until I knew I was getting released early that I managed some semblance of hope for the first time.”

I turned my face away from my father and stared out through the coffee shop window. Because of everything I’d endured, I hated to think anything he was saying made sense. But in his words, I recognized how much he despised himself, and I heard the hope just as easily.

“So, where do we go from here?” I finally asked.

“Honestly, it is completely up to you. My therapist suggested I leave the ball in your court. You know I want to get to know you, and I know we won’t suddenly become father and son again overnight. I’d be happy to come and have coffee with you here when you have some spare time.”

“That’s it? Just coffee?”

“I do have a small request if you’re up for it.”

I narrowed my eyes. Here it was. “What?”

“This might sound crazy for you, but I’d really like you to come to therapy with me sometime.”

“Therapy?” I asked incredulously. I didn’t need f*cking therapy. I didn’t need to talk to some quack about my problems. Just because it supposedly worked for my dad didn’t mean it would work for me.

He barked a short laugh. “That was my exact reaction when it was first suggested to me.”

I glared back at him. That was not what I’d wanted to hear.

“I want us to get to know each other. I want us to be able to remember the past, confront the past, and also move on from the past. I can’t fix our problems though. I’m no professional, and our issues are too deeply ingrained in both of us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Once I finally admitted I needed help, I found help. You might find it, too. My therapist was the one who pushed me to reach out to you in the first place.”

“I don’t need help,” I muttered.

“Grant, you saw something terribly traumatic because of what I did. I think you know you should go.”

My father sat back in his chair and waited. He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me. It was pretty clear to anyone around that we were related—same facial shape, same dark hair, same brown eyes.

If only there were something else between us that was similar…then maybe we could reconnect.

Did I even want to search for that something?

Was there a thread that inherently connected us somehow?

Despite all the years apart, the jail time, the gun I’d pulled on him, I knew the look he was giving me was one of disappointment…and I hated disappointing him. It was ingrained in me.

Fuck! No! I was not going to f*cking therapy. So f*cking stupid.