they don’t understand is that I don’t need to forgive him—not anymore. Somehow, in the slightest, most miniscule of ways, I get it. Because of Marisa. Because now I’ve seen firsthand how even the best of people can fight demons and almost lose. Because I’ve seen that bad shit happens to good people.
But Dad—Dad did lose. And I can’t fix that. I wouldn’t have been able to if I’d tried.
For the longest time, I hated him. I hated him for not telling someone what was bothering him. I hated him for not getting help. I hated him for being selfish enough to take his life when there were people behind who loved him more than their own lives.
Earlier this season, Coach told me to suck up my pride and that real men know when to ask for help. But that’s not always true. Sometimes pride is debilitating, especially in a town where people put their heroes on pedestals.
“We wanted you here,” I choke out. “You know that, right? We would’ve done anything to keep you here. All you had to do was ask.”
Tears slip down my cheeks. No matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes, they just keep coming. I fall to my knees. The wet grass squishes against my skin as I stare at the marble headstone.
“For a long time, I hated you for leaving us. For how you left us. But now—” My voice cracks again. Now that I’ve seen the pain that leads up to that decision, the ache, the freakin’ torture that goes through someone’s head… “—I hate myself for hating you. And I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”
Wiping my nose with my arm, I stand. “Coach sent me to forgive you, Dad, but I just hope you can forgive me.” I take a step back. And another, and another, until I hit my truck.
I climb into the Chevy, and I sit. I sit for a long, long time, staring at the grave-markers ahead, stretching across the cemetery. I stare at good people, bad people, okay people. People who lived their lives to the fullest and people who screwed their way through life without thinking. I’m sure I’m staring at other people who were like my dad, who had the world at their fingertips but were haunted by something.
And I think that’s my biggest regret: not knowing what led him to the bridge. I don’t know what was going through his head that night, what made him think death was the only way out. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I hope every single person in my life knows how much I love them. And that I would really miss them if they were gone.
It’s dark by the time I pull into Marisa’s driveway. Raining, too. I’m not sure how I ended up here, to be honest. All I know is that she’s the only person I want to see.
The truck door creaks as I push it open. My practice cleats, which never got used today, splash in a puddle when I step out onto the driveway. Their porch light is on, which means they’re still awake. That’s a good thing. Waking up your girlfriend’s parents in the middle of the night is kind of a deal-breaker for said parents.
I push the doorbell, prepared for my usual wait, but the door swings open almost immediately. Marisa steps outside, her face all scrunched-up and confused as she says, “Oh, my God. Austin, you’re soaked.”
Am I? I look down. Yep. I am, in fact, soaked. Not entirely sure when that happened.
I gesture to the door. “How’re your parents?”
She crosses her arms. “They’re fine,” she drawls. “Why? What’s going on?”
I nod. “Good. That’s good.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I just got back from seeing my dad.”
Her expression softens. She wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me against her. “Are you okay?”
I nod again. “Yeah. I think I am.” And finally, I look at her, really look at her, and realize why I came here. Why she was the only person I wanted to see tonight. What I wanted to make sure she heard.
“I love you,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen, but all I want to do is say it again, and again, and again. So, as I wrap my own arms around her, I do. “I love that your eyes crinkle when you smile. I love that you laugh at anything and everything. I love that you love baseball and flowers,