"I'm sorry."
"It was my doing." He traces the rim of his brandy glass. "We all make mistakes. Even when we try our hardest. I thought that was what my family needed. I thought I was supposed to be a provider, I did, but it was more than that. I wanted to prove something to my father, to myself, to the entire world."
"Did you?"
"Yes. There was a sweetness to that victory. I won't claim otherwise. But when I saw the damage it had caused, when I realized what I'd given up, the years I'd missed of my son's childhood… it was bittersweet."
"Would you do it differently now?" I ask.
"Of course. But that's easy for me to say now."
"It is." Would I do anything differently? I'm still young, but I've made plenty of mistakes. Dating John for too long. Attempting casual arrangements too many times. Falling into long depressive phases and failing to claw my way out of them.
Sometimes, I couldn't help it. Sometimes, I didn't have tools. But, sometimes, I did. Sometimes, I knew what I needed to do, and I had enough good days I could do it—
"We all make mistakes." It's generic, but it's true.
"Shall we put that on our kitchen poster?"
"You remember?"
He nods.
"No, it needs to be a little more Pollyannaish."
"We all make mistakes. That's why pencils have erasers."
"Perfect." I laugh. "You're good at this."
He raises his glass.
I raise mine. Sip. Swallow. Savor.
"Your father, he wasn't faithful to your mother?"
Fuck. We're back to that already. "He wasn't."
"And you worry the same thing will happen with Liam."
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
"I see these flashes of the woman she used to be. Someone vibrant and bright and bold. She was an artist. A painter. She crafted these gorgeous floral close-ups. Very Georgia O'Keeffe. She had write-ups in local papers. A scholarship at a prestigious school. Then she got pregnant with me and she married my father and she just stopped."
"She doesn't paint anymore?"
"No. She's there sometimes. Present, sometimes, as a mother. I still remember this summer she went to every swim meet. Took us to the beach nearly every weekend. She had this fabulous one-piece swimsuit and a big floppy hat. Both were bright pink. And the way she wore them… she didn't care that her thighs were thick and her arms were soft. And that's hard in California."
"Here too, I imagine."
"It's different here. A different standard. I guess it's hard everywhere. But easier, now, in some ways. All these brands giving up photoshopping. Women like Danielle presenting their bodies as they are. She's gorgeous, and she has curves in all the right places, but she has cellulite and stretch marks too and… I've lost you, haven't I?"
"A little," he admits.
"Sorry. I get caught up in ideas. I forget I'm talking to someone on my side. Or that there aren't sides. I just—"
"Don't apologize for your passion, Briar. Promise me you'll stop doing that."
I'm compelled to answer honestly. "You really want me to promise?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"You're my future daughter-in-law. Not technically, maybe, but you're the woman who's going to be with my most difficult child."
"He is difficult."
"And you're a smart young woman. You're going to change the world for the better. I only wish… I only wish I'd be able to see all of it."
"None of us do."
"No. I suppose not." He stares at his brandy glass. "But now I'm the one off track. What happened with your mother?"
"You really want to talk about that?"
"I do."
"Okay." I take my last sip. Hail the waitress.
"Is it that bad?"
"A little."
He smiles softly. "You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business."
"No. It's okay." I want to tell someone. I want to tell him something true.
The waitress appears. Somehow senses my needs. "Another round?"
"Yes, please," I say.
Preston nods of course.
Thankfully, the waitress is quick with our drinks.
Again, I pounce on mine.
I take another sip. Swallow hard. I can do this. Really.
Confronting my fear of commitment with the man who thinks I'm committed to marrying his son—
No fucking problem.
I take a deep breath and I start.
Chapter Thirty-One
Briar
"Is it obvious I'm uncomfortable about marriage?" I ask.
"You hide it well." Preston listens carefully, as if he wants to hear everything I have to say.
It shouldn't feel unusual—isn't this how conversation goes—but it does.
With my dad…
It's not that he doesn't listen. He did. When I was a kid, I was daddy's little girl. I loved spending time with him, and he loved spending time with me.
He listened when I rambled on about the stingray I saw at the aquarium or the swim meet on Saturday or the action on my current cartoon.
Even when I was older, when I was talking about the bad music at middle school dances, or the books in Honors American Literature, or the guy who asked me to homecoming—
He always listened. He always knew how to make me feel like daddy's little girl.