Page 96 of You Met Me There

Finally, he speaks up. “Something like that isn’t on us, Luke. When it comes to work, we’re the employers. We look for individuals who are hardworking, ethical, and who produce the outcome we want. A business is like a machine, and we—the employers—see to it that the machine runs smoothly. Whether we want someone to succeed or not doesn’t matter. It’s up to them how they choose to work. Either they work the way we need them to in order to make the business successful, or they don’t get paid. That’s all it comes down to.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“I am right. Do you have something against firing Gray now?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. Gray causes me more work than less at this point.”

“Then what’s bothering you, son?” There’s a long pause before Dad says, “This isn’t about Gray … Is it?”

I haven’t told my parents about why I came to Maple Lake this summer. They don’t know anything about Natalie’s desire for a kid or that I’m afraid of her getting pregnant after what happened to Mom. I didn’t want to burden them with the details and the drama behind Nat running back here, but I also didn’t want to dredge up Mom’s past. But I hate feeling like we’re keeping something from them.

A family is like a machine too. It runs most smoothly on truth, trust, and—for Dad and me—a lot of time on the green.

After Mom’s depression faded, my family finally became a smooth-working machine, and I feared that bringing everything back from the past would bring the machine to a grinding, screeching halt.

“Dad,” I say hesitantly. “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay. What is it?”

I say it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Nat left me at the beginning of the summer. That’s why she came back to Maple Lake.”

Each word loosens the knot that’s formed in my stomach. But while it feels right to have finally told him the truth, the Band-Aid pulled at scabs I hoped were gone, making me sick all over again.

Dad’s silence is loud. “Why? What happened?” he finally asks.

I sigh a shaky breath. “Natalie wants to have kids, but I’ve always told her no. She was ready to leave me because I couldn’t give her what she wanted.”

“Tell me, son, why couldn’t you give her that? What’s holding you back? You don’t want kids?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t want kids—at least not anymore. I’m working through some things … things that happened with Mom.” I wince as I say the words, digging into the pit of skeletons I’d buried long ago.

Dad and I never talked about Mom’s depression, and I sure as hell never made Mom feel bad for it by bringing it up.

“Oh,” Dad says, and I can tell from the way he says it that he understands. “Are you afraid what happened to your mother will happen to Natalie?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

Dad groans the way he does when he rests his back against the brown leather chair at his desk. “I wondered if that messed with you. You never said anything, though … How long has that been bothering you?”

“Honestly? Forever.” I glance back at the cabin where Natalie is inside, editing photos on her laptop.

Dad’s deep voice is calm but strong. “Your mom dealt with a lot of emotions after those losses. But just because you saw her go through it doesn’t mean that Natalie will face the same thing.”

“I know that, I really do.” I’ve been reciting it to myself for months. “I’ve looked up the statistics for miscarriages and the possibility for depression to follow, but those numbers don’t seem to help ease the way it scares me. Seeing Mom like that—it was so hard. I was too young to know what to think of it. How to handle losing Mom for those two years.”

“I’m so sorry you felt like you had to hold this all in, Luke. And I know I wasn’t there for you as much as I should have been during those years. I was trying to help your mom and hold her together, trying to meet all her needs so she didn’t feel alone.” He sighs heavily. “I didn’t stop to think you would have needed to be held together too.”

A nervous tension fills my bones. Ever since Mom’s depression after her miscarriages, I’ve worked hard to never cause her more stress. I was always a great kid—I followed the rules, I didn’t talk back, I helped her whenever I could with everything I could think of. I cleaned the house, did my homework alone, mowed the lawn, and made her meals. But I was so young. And I didn’t have my dad either for a lot of that time.

Now I’ve brought it all up again after I promised myself I never would, and it’s going to hurt her.

“Is Mom there?” I ask, needing to rectify my mistake immediately.

“No. She’s at the country club.”

My shoulders sink.

“Should I have her call you when she’s home?” he asks.