Page 59 of Licks

Her reply had been straightforward but cryptic. “You were born of love,” she’d said flatly. “But love is often blind.”

That had been the most detail I’d ever learned about my father. I had pushed back, begged for more information. She had stonewalled me and played her Cancer Card. Would claim she was tired and needed to lie down when I’d go over. We’d fought on and off after that, because I couldn’t let it go, to the point she’d asked me to stop visiting.

There had been no magical mending of our relationship when she’d gotten sick. My anger toward her had intensified, for what she’d withheld—affection, information. She would close her eyes when I’d enter her room.

She died suddenly, a month after our last interaction. I hadn’t been by her bed, holding her hand. I hadn’t cried at her funeral. Her parents hadn’t shown up. With no phone number or return address on my old birthday cards, I’d had no way to reach my aunt. I organized Mary’s house on my own, had packed her life into boxes, but I never mourned.

Something moved through me as I sat here, her journal in my hand, her potent love for this man seeping from her words. A sob moved up my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said to no one and everyone. To her. To August. To the father I didn’t know. “I’m sorry I ruined your life.”

It came out as a snotty, phlegmy sound, the words running together. Giddy one second, snotty the next. This day had been nothing but a rollercoaster, and I was about ready to get off.

August removed the journal from my trembling hand, led us to a soft dirt patch. He lay on his back and cradled me against his chest. He made shushing sounds as he stroked my hair and let me cry. I clung to him, my salty tears sliding over his collarbone.

He tucked me closer. “I’m here, baby. Let it out.”

And I did. It wasn’t pretty. It was loud and hiccupy, and off-the-charts unattractive. My mother had been so alive before having me. Hopeful. Spirited. She’d loved this man deeply. I didn’t have proof he was my father, but a sureness formed as I grieved: a strange connection to these words and this spot, maybe where I’d been conceived.

“I never said goodbye to her,” I finally managed. “She died thinking I hated her.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“But I did hate her. I was awful to her. We were awful to each other. The word love wasn’t in her vocabulary.”

“She loved you, Gwen. In her own twisted way, she loved you. You were always in her thoughts.”

He spoke with such confidence, as though he knew something I didn’t. As though she’d told him as much. It didn’t matter. What was done was done. I had her journal now, a window into the girl she’d once been. I was also sure I’d find my father. The bigger piece. The more important connection.

The flashlight was still on, shining away from us. August was a warm stamp in the near darkness, a solid shape holding me together. We were both covered in earth, the dry ground smeared on our jeans, dusting our skin. I splayed my palm over his abdomen. “I made you dirty again.”

It was easier to focus on dirt and the slow pulse spinning through my belly than swirling regrets.

He shifted lower, tipped up my chin. Soft lips landed on my nose, both my eyelids. He kissed my tear-streaked cheeks. The rise and fall of his chest slowed. It stopped. “Gwen, I…”

There was trepidation in his tone, his unfinished “I” dangling between us.

I love you. Is that what he was about to say? What he’d promised he wouldn’t do? I love yous came with expectations and a future and all the things I wasn’t ready to discuss.

A girl couldn’t face her Worst Terrible Fuck-up, her dead mother’s diary, and a phantom father, all while fighting to maintain her sanity in the face of a possible I love you from the one who got away, when he’d be leaving in two short days. No. Not two days. It was one day now. My birthday was today.

August was leaving tomorrow morning, because tomorrow was today. God.

These seconds needed to slow the fuck down. Stop. Go in reverse.

Terrified he was about to say the three most terrifying words in the English language, I opened my ridiculous mouth, and blurted, “I stole your underwear.”

Gwen Hamilton, winner of the Dumbest Confession Award.

1 a.m., 23 Hours…

August

I wiggled my hips in my jeans, but my briefs were still on. They hadn’t magically disappeared. “Explain yourself, Possum.”

“Nothing. Forget I said it.” Gwen dashed at her drying tears.

“Forget you said that you stole my underwear? On what planet would that happen?”

“Uranus.”