Read Online Because You Love Me (Falling for You, Book Three) by Ava Claire - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ava Claire
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like a museum and the closer I got to the room that had become my father's prison, the more I wanted to turn back. I knew how this all would end. I'd tell him fuck his addendum, he'd just stare at me with that dismissive glare that always cut like a knife, and thank me for visiting.
I paused in front of two oversized oak doors, the feeling of being small and like I was about to enter some royal court not lost on me. The room used to be my father's home office, but when his health deteriorated it became his 'recovery suite'. My mother's words. I don't think she'd used the words 'death' or 'dying' since he got sick. I wasn't sure if it was her usual burying her head in the sand or if some part of her loved him and couldn't accept the diagnosis. Ultimately, it didn't matter. My father was dying. Whether she ignored it or mourned it, it wouldn't stop the clock from running out.
I gripped the door knob, but I didn't turn it. The walk up had been a breeze. I had my speech ready. My game face was on. Yet now that I was here and I knew he was on the other side of the door, I was dragging my feet. Maybe all that nostalgia about what we had and what could have been bothered me more than I realized. As much as I pretended that all the ways he disappointed me had made me into the man I was, it was hitting me that my father had been and always would be a stranger.
But you don't have to be. He thinks he knows you. He thinks that you'll just lie down and take it.
It was high time my father met me.
I opened the door, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light. There was no massive oak desk. No walls lined with bookshelves. The ancient globe that he used to have propped in the corner was gone. Everything that this room was, his space, his throne room, had been removed. There was only the bed, hospital grade, covered in crisp white linens, a flurry of medical equipment, and an oversized armchair in front of the window that led to the balcony.
Still in awe of everything that was missing, I almost expected him to jump out of some closet and yell ‘Boo!’ Tell me that he was really okay. But I knew my father wasn't one for the games that children play. Mind games were his specialty.
Despite the fact that his bed was empty, I knew my father was in the room. I felt the heaviness of his presence. It didn't matter that the French doors were wide open and the sun was streaming into the room. A chill raced over me, but I focused on the window. I focused on the warmth. That whole 'great minds think alike' saying must have been based in some level of truth because when I stopped analyzing the roller coaster of emotions I was on and used common sense, I realized I knew exactly where he was at. I saw the IV bag on one side of the chair, the oxygen tank propped on the other. I almost called out an apology, sure I had the wrong room. The man in the chair was completely bald. The neck that held that person's head up was too thin to be my father's. Just down the hall there was photographic proof that this was a stranger. Robert Wade a head full of dark hair, just like mine; a neck as thick and fearsome as a tree trunk. Some invisible force pulled me forward, the reason I was there long forgotten.
Emotion seized every part of me when I stepped into the light and saw just how far gone he was. He was literally nothing but skin and bones, all the things that made him the larger than life character that seemed untouchable had been taken from him. The striking features that he'd given me we're now gaunt and forgotten. When he fixed his green eyes on me, it didn't have its usual effect; my hackles didn't rise, ready for a fight. I didn't see disappointment. I saw relief.
He licked his lips, his eyes fluttering slowly, painfully, like that mere act of blinking was too much to bear.
"Xander."
Tears I refused to acknowledge as such filled my eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I went with the most ridiculous thing I could have said. "H-How are
I paused in front of two oversized oak doors, the feeling of being small and like I was about to enter some royal court not lost on me. The room used to be my father's home office, but when his health deteriorated it became his 'recovery suite'. My mother's words. I don't think she'd used the words 'death' or 'dying' since he got sick. I wasn't sure if it was her usual burying her head in the sand or if some part of her loved him and couldn't accept the diagnosis. Ultimately, it didn't matter. My father was dying. Whether she ignored it or mourned it, it wouldn't stop the clock from running out.
I gripped the door knob, but I didn't turn it. The walk up had been a breeze. I had my speech ready. My game face was on. Yet now that I was here and I knew he was on the other side of the door, I was dragging my feet. Maybe all that nostalgia about what we had and what could have been bothered me more than I realized. As much as I pretended that all the ways he disappointed me had made me into the man I was, it was hitting me that my father had been and always would be a stranger.
But you don't have to be. He thinks he knows you. He thinks that you'll just lie down and take it.
It was high time my father met me.
I opened the door, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the blinding light. There was no massive oak desk. No walls lined with bookshelves. The ancient globe that he used to have propped in the corner was gone. Everything that this room was, his space, his throne room, had been removed. There was only the bed, hospital grade, covered in crisp white linens, a flurry of medical equipment, and an oversized armchair in front of the window that led to the balcony.
Still in awe of everything that was missing, I almost expected him to jump out of some closet and yell ‘Boo!’ Tell me that he was really okay. But I knew my father wasn't one for the games that children play. Mind games were his specialty.
Despite the fact that his bed was empty, I knew my father was in the room. I felt the heaviness of his presence. It didn't matter that the French doors were wide open and the sun was streaming into the room. A chill raced over me, but I focused on the window. I focused on the warmth. That whole 'great minds think alike' saying must have been based in some level of truth because when I stopped analyzing the roller coaster of emotions I was on and used common sense, I realized I knew exactly where he was at. I saw the IV bag on one side of the chair, the oxygen tank propped on the other. I almost called out an apology, sure I had the wrong room. The man in the chair was completely bald. The neck that held that person's head up was too thin to be my father's. Just down the hall there was photographic proof that this was a stranger. Robert Wade a head full of dark hair, just like mine; a neck as thick and fearsome as a tree trunk. Some invisible force pulled me forward, the reason I was there long forgotten.
Emotion seized every part of me when I stepped into the light and saw just how far gone he was. He was literally nothing but skin and bones, all the things that made him the larger than life character that seemed untouchable had been taken from him. The striking features that he'd given me we're now gaunt and forgotten. When he fixed his green eyes on me, it didn't have its usual effect; my hackles didn't rise, ready for a fight. I didn't see disappointment. I saw relief.
He licked his lips, his eyes fluttering slowly, painfully, like that mere act of blinking was too much to bear.
"Xander."
Tears I refused to acknowledge as such filled my eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I went with the most ridiculous thing I could have said. "H-How are
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