“I’ll make sure he does. I’ll come too.”

“Good,” I say. “I don’t have as long to prepare this time.”

Adam nods. “We’ll help you all we can, and just…think about this, all right? Sometimes the moral high ground isn’t always the best place to stake your claim.”

“Huh?” I say, completely confused. Was he even speaking English? All I can picture is a bunch of gold miners rushing around driving stakes into high, hilly ground.

He sighs. “I just mean that being stubborn and holding onto grudges isn’t always the best way to go. But I can sit here and explain that to you until I’m blue in the face and you probably won’t listen. Maybe when you get into a relationship, you’ll figure it out. Or else you’re just going to be lonely, because no one is perfect.”

Perhaps he is referring to himself and Mia. They were far from perfect and had broken up several times before finally ending up happy together. Maybe those are the chances he’s referring to. Did he have to forgive her for something, or did she have to forgive him?

Or maybe it was both? It makes me wonder if getting into a relationship means learning new things about yourself. And making changes. I don’t like changes.

I mull over those thoughts as I finish up my workday. On the way home, I stop by a fruit stand. It’s strawberry season in Southern California and the stands are everywhere, selling them freshly picked and packed in large boxes. They’re dark red and almost the size of small apples. I end up buying a full box, even though I know I can’t eat them all before they go bad. So I stop by my dad’s house to leave some with him and his wife, Kim.

I ring the doorbell and enter, like I always do, and Kim comes around the corner. “Liam!” she says. It didn’t take long before she picked up the habit from all of my other family members to call me by that nickname. Kim has been my stepmom for only a short time now—almost nine and a half months. And the fact that she is Mia’s mom makes Mia my stepsister.

“I brought strawberries.” Because I know she’s going to invite me to eat dinner with them—she always does—I add, “But I can’t stay long—”

“Yes, it’s Monday. I understand…your workout routine. That’s okay, but at least wait to say ‘hi’ to your dad. He just got home a few minutes before you pulled in.”

After he’s changed his clothes, Dad comes out and we talk for a few minutes. They thank me for the strawberries before I take my leave, mentioning that I’m already off my schedule. Fortunately, they know me well enough to not push it.

I’m almost out the door when I stop suddenly. It’s seconds after I’ve passed through the front hall, but something has jumped out at me. Something is different. I turn around and move back to where I saw it… and there it is.

A newly framed painting is hanging in the hallway. My throat is inexplicably tight. So tight I can’t swallow.

“What is it?” my dad asks. Kim quickly excuses herself, and I‘m so stunned I can’t tell her goodbye.

“That picture. Where did you get it?”

There’s a long pause. My dad doesn’t say anything. I turn back to study the art. I’m very familiar with it. I produced it when I was fourteen years old. It’s a black line drawing with watercolor wash, a medium I haven’t used in at least four years. It shows an autumn scene in the hills out by the historic town of Julian. They hold an annual apple festival there, and I’d visited the area shortly before painting this.

But I threw it away years ago. There was too much anger and pain associated with it. My fists tighten at my sides as I replay the scene in my mind. I can see every vivid detail and feel every feeling, including the cold anger and the hurt. Returning to my room after having been called into the kitchen to speak on the phone with my mother. Her excuses—there were always excuses—as to why we wouldn’t go out to dinner, as she’d previously planned.

I’d grabbed that picture—intended as a gift for her—and shoved it in the trashcan. I didn’t cry. And I refused every invitation to see her after that.

“Well?” I ask between clenched teeth.

“I have a big folder of your artwork, and I was showing it to Kim. She loved this and wanted to frame it and show it off in our front hallway.”

“But I threw this away,” I say quietly, glancing at him out of the side of my eye.

“Liam,” Dad says.

I turn to him and he’s not looking at my face. That’s good, because I don’t want him to see me like this, and I sure as hell don’t want to look in his eyes while he lies to me.

“I threw this away, Dad. What is it doing on your wall?”

He takes in a deep breath and lets it go. “I saved it from your trash can. It was too beautiful to throw away.”

I blink, confused. Not because he dug it out of the trash, but because I’m not sure how I feel. That hurt and anger are back, fresh as ever, resentment toward a mother who never cared enough. Those feelings are mixed with frustration and also admiration toward a father who cared almost too much.

“Does it bother you?” Dad’s question interrupts my jumbled thoughts. “Kim really loved it. In fact, she loves all of your art.”

My stepmother loves what my mother never saw. Never cared to see. I take a deep breath, and suddenly Dad’s hand is on my shoulder. “Liam.”

I stiffen. “I gotta go. I’m already thirty-eight minutes off my schedule.”

His hand slides off. “Okay, son. Love you.”

This time I don’t recite the words back to him like I usually do. Instead, I say, “Goodbye.”

As I go about my workout routine—putting extra vigor into it to make up for the lost time and as an escape vent for these confusing feelings—I think about the things that have happened today. Specifically, Adam’s words about forgiveness and letting go. Later that night when Dad texts to ask me if I’m okay, I answer that I am and that he should keep the picture hanging on the wall.

Chapter 9

Jenna

Early on Saturday morning, I made it to the cemetery as promised. Alex was kind enough to lend me her car, but because I didn’t want to leave her stranded at home all day, I left at the asscrack of dawn.

I didn’t have money for a professional bouquet, so I’d spent some time on a sunset walk the night before picking wildflowers along the side of the road. As I did so, I indulged in memories I usually preferred to keep buried…our first date, our first kiss. The time he spent all his savings from his part-time job at the pizza shop to take me out on a special date and buy me a necklace for our anniversary. I still had that necklace, though the clasp had broken and I couldn’t wear it anymore.