Chapter Eight
808 Words
Chapter Eight
I almost don’t answer.
Not because it’s Emily.
Because it’s six thirty on a Thursday evening and I’ve spent the last ten hours dealing with problems created by people who should know better.
The phone buzzes again.
Emily.
I stare at the screen.
Then answer.
“Hello?”
Silence.
That’s never a good sign.
“Emily?”
“Hi.”
Something in her voice immediately puts me on edge.
Not upset.
Not angry.
Worse.
Nervous.
Emily Walsh is many things.
Nervous is not usually one of them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
I close my eyes.
Whenever somebody starts a conversation with nothing, something has absolutely happened.
“Right.”
A sigh.
Then:
“I need to ask you something.”
The words settle heavily in my chest.
For a second my mind runs through every possible disaster.
Sofia.
Emily.
Work.
Hospital.
Accident.
“Okay.”
Another pause.
A long one.
Then:
“Sofia has a Father’s Day event at school next week.”
Of all the things I expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them.
I lean back in my chair.
Relief flooding through me.
Followed immediately by something else.
Something much heavier.
Father’s Day.
Of course.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
I already know where this conversation is going.
I just don’t want to know.
Not because of Emily.
Because of Tomas.
Because some wounds don’t care how much time has passed.
They still know exactly where to hurt.
“Sofia wants somebody to go with her.”
There it is.
I stare out the office window.
The car park below is almost empty.
Everyone sensible went home an hour ago.
I should have done the same.
Instead I’m standing here feeling like somebody has reached into my chest and twisted.
“Christopher?”
I realise Emily is waiting for an answer.
“Sorry.”
My voice sounds strange.
Even to me.
“Who does she want to bring?”
The silence on the other end tells me everything.
I close my eyes.
Of course.
Of course it’s me.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Not because it’s funny.
Because sometimes the universe has a very particular sense of humour.
“She specifically asked for me.”
“Yes.”
I sit down heavily.
For a moment I can’t speak.
I picture Sofia.
Eight years old.
Missing front tooth.
Terrible at keeping secrets.
Completely convinced she can beat me at chess despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
I picture Tomas.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
The memories still come too easily.
Some days they always will.
“Christopher?”
Emily sounds worried now.
Great.
Exactly what I wanted.
To worry Emily.
“No.”
I rub a hand across my face.
“I’m here.”
Another pause.
Then:
“You don’t have to do it.”
The words surprise me.
Because I know how much this call cost her.
And she’s already giving me a way out.
For a second I consider taking it.
It would be easier.
Safer.
Cleaner.
But then I think about Sofia sitting at the kitchen table waiting for an answer.
Hoping.
Trusting.
And the decision is made before I even realise it.
“Of course I’ll go.”
The relief in Emily’s exhale is immediate.
And strangely satisfying.
“Thank you.”
“It’s one morning.”
“I know.”
I smile despite myself.
“No. You don’t.”
For a moment neither of us says anything.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore.
Not like it used to be.
Just familiar.
Then Emily laughs softly.
A real laugh.
The sound catches me off guard.
It always does.
“She’s been talking about it all evening.”
I look down at my desk.
At the mountain of unfinished paperwork.
At the life I’d built over the last two years.
And suddenly none of it seems particularly important.
“Tell her I’ll be there.”
Another pause.
Smaller this time.
Then:
“I will.”
We say goodbye.
The call ends.
The office falls silent again.
I place the phone on the desk.
Then immediately regret answering it.
Because now my head is full of memories I work very hard not to revisit.
Father’s Day.
Tomas would have loved it.
He would have embarrassed Sofia.
Taken too many photos.
Probably cried.
Then denied crying.
The i***t.
A smile tugs briefly at the corner of my mouth.
Before disappearing.
The guilt follows.
Like it always does.
Quiet.
Patient.
Waiting.
Two years later and it still knows exactly where to find me.
I stare out the window.
At the darkening evening sky.
At the reflection staring back.
And for the first time in a very long while, I allow myself one selfish thought.
I wish Tomas were the one getting that phone call.
Not me.
- Writer
