"What is it?"
"My secrets."
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "You're sharing your secrets with me?"
"I have no secrets from you, Dahlia. Everything I have is yours. You can have anything, go anywhere. Nothing is off-limits to you."
"Not even the library with your precious treasure?" she teases.
My mind drifts back to the first time we spoke, to the first time I tasted her kiss. "You're my treasure," I growl. "Open the box."
She hesitates and then flips open the lid, revealing the trinkets I've guarded my entire life. To everyone else, they're junk. An old baseball card, two matchbox cars, a paper sailboat, an old compass, a wooden top, and a newspaper clipping.
"What is all of this?" she asks, running her fingers gently over each item.
"What you called my precious treasure."
She smiles, her expression soft.
"The night we met in the library, I wasn't there after the whiskey," I explain. "I came to retrieve this box. I worried you might discover it and throw it away." I tap the dented lid. "I made the sailboat the day of the Halloween party. I won the matchbox cars and the wooden top playing ring toss right before…." I clear my throat. "Well, I got thirsty after the game, so I ran to get some punch. The newspaper clipping is from the day before, the last day I was fully human."
"Draven," she whispers.
"I suppose I kept them as reminders that I was normal once." I shrug, not sure why I kept them. Not sure it matters any longer. Those items don't hold the same weight for me as they did a few weeks ago. But the box and the compass? Those matter. "The box and compass belonged to my father."
She glances up at me, surprise evident in her expression.
"He died when I was seven. The box and compass are all I have left of him." His things still fill the house, but to me, they are just things. The box and compass aren't. I still remember when my father gave me each.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asks.
"Because I love you," I say simply. "And I don't want you to spend the rest of your life missing your father when all you have to do is pick up the phone, Beauty. You may never see eye to eye with him. You may never be ready to forgive him, and that's your right. But I know you. I know that you love him deeply even though he's wounded your heart. And I know you'll never truly be at peace until you try to work it out with him."
"You don't understand," she whispers. "He's not…He's not a good man, Draven. He's not a kind man."
"Let him carry that weight." I press nibbling kisses to her lips. "Don't carry it for him when it's hurting your heart, Beauty. Hear him out for your sake, and then you can decide whether you're ready to let him back into your life. But if you never pick up the phone, you'll spend the rest of your life missing him and wondering what if. Don't do that to yourself."
"I'll think about it," she says, sighing quietly.
Chapter Ten
Dahlia
NomatterhowhardI scrub the window, how many times I spray it, or which cloth I use, one stubborn stain refuses to shift. Tension sets in my jaw as I grit my teeth, working the cloth back and forth until my shoulders are sore.
Damn spot. Why won't it come out?
Draven's encouragement to contact my dad rattles around in my head. The suggestion was thoughtful and sweet, but he doesn't know my old man. He doesn't know what he's capable of. The longer I resist calling, the more it pricks at my conscience. I've tried keeping busy to keep the thoughts from taking over, but it's not working. My head refuses to stay quiet.
What if Draven is right about Dad? What if he died and I never saw him again?
The items inside Draven's precious box are valuable treasures connecting him to his father. The objects are insignificant and hold no real value. Yet Draven's eyes held an ocean of pain when he shared his precious objects. All his love transferred to them, but objects are no substitute.
Is that what it feels like when you lose someone close to you, even though it's someone you hate?No.I don't hate my father, and in a way, I'm afraid I will end up hating him if I'm around him too long. I don't agree with many of his beliefs.
I've been so busy fighting him that I never considered how I'd feel if he wasn't around. All I thought about was being away from him, as far away as possible.
His influence was stifling, and I feared I'd say something I didn't mean. Or even if I meant it in the heat of the moment, when bad things are said, they can never be unsaid. And that's why I left home. To preserve what was left of our relationship, but maybe I didn't do the right thing.