“He’s been in contact with you, then? You didn’t say anything, so I assumed he didn’t follow through.”
Dallas pictured the crinkled envelope he’d taken out of his duffel bag last night. He didn’t pick up his mail often, handled almost everything online, so his father’s letter had been waiting in his post office box for over a month. “He wrote me, if that’s what you mean by ‘followed through.’”
“What’d he have to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t open it? What’d you do with it? Throw it away?”
“Not yet. But I might. What’d your letter say?”
“That he was eager to reach you, that he had something to tell you he felt you should hear.”
The bitterness that welled up surprised Dallas. He’d thought he’d come to terms with his childhood—even though it had warped him in a way he couldn’t seem to fix, like a constant wind permanently bends even a strong tree. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. I don’t want to hear anything he has to say.”
She rested her hand on his forearm. Her touch had always soothed him. He’d watched Eli handle the horses they had on the property in a similar manner, knew it was because of the trust he’d developed with them that they responded as they did. Dallas supposed the same mechanism was at work here, too. So maybe he could trust. He trusted Aiyana, didn’t he? It just didn’t come easy.
“He claims he’s sorry for what he did to your mother and sister, Dallas,” she said. “That he’s spent the past twenty-three years regretting his actions.”
He didn’t believe that for a second. No amount of regret could change the past, anyway. Dallas was six when he’d watched his father, in a drunken rage, shoot and kill his mother and sister. He turned the gun on himself afterward, but managed only a superficial wound before being hauled off to prison. Dallas went to live with his mother’s mother—until she died of chronic disruptive pulmonary disease a year later. Then he was put into the foster care system, where he acted out so badly he was passed around from home to home until he turned fourteen and the state, in a last-ditch effort to correct his behavior, sent him to New Horizons.
Fortunately, that brought him into contact with Aiyana. Because of her—and the stability she offered—not only did he graduate, he was accepted to UC Santa Cruz. He only attended one year before dropping out, but at least he finished high school. If not for Aiyana, he wouldn’t have done that much. If not for Aiyana, he’d probably be in prison, like his dad. The group of friends he’d fallen in with in Bakersfield, where he’d spent his life up until that point, was getting heavily involved in using and selling drugs.
“Why does he want to talk to me?” Dallas asked. Then he voiced what he suspected, what he’d told himself that letter probably contained, which was the main reason he hadn’t opened it. “Don’t tell me he’s up for parole. Does he expect me to come speak at his hearing, and try to help him get out? Because that’s not gonna happen.”
“That’s not what he said,” Aiyana replied. “He told me he was just hoping to get a message to you.”
“So that’s how he got my address? You gave it to him?” He scowled. “Why? You know how I feel about him.”
“Actually, I don’t,” she said calmly. “You’ll never speak of him.”
“Because of how I feel,” he responded in exasperation.
“I’m sorry if I made the wrong decision. I should’ve asked you before I gave him your address. Even though you’ve never opened up about him, I know you have issues with him, and rightly so. But I figured it was safe to give him a PO Box. It’s not as if he could ever show up at your door, even if he did get out. And I thought—” her hand rubbed his arm in a loving gesture “—if he’s truly sorry, it might do you some good to receive an apology. Sometimes when people take responsibility for the things they’ve done—no matter how terrible—it can heal old wounds.”
Dallas didn’t think the man he remembered was capable of true remorse. He was too narcissistic for that. “I’m fine. There’s nothing he could do to help me even if I wasn’t. Whatever he says, they’re just words.”
She let go of him and sat in silence for a few minutes before changing the subject. “We’re having a rewards assembly tomorrow morning at school, for those who have attained at least a B average so far this semester. I was hoping you’d come and teach the boys how to scale the climbing wall. Gavin and Eli don’t know much about climbing, so I bet they’d be grateful. And it would allow them to concentrate on helping the boys with the sports they are good at.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“Of course,” he said. There was nothing Aiyana could ask of him that would be too much—not that this would be even a minor sacrifice.
“Thank you.” She stood and kissed him on the head. “Good night.”
As he listened to her climb the stairs, he thought about what she’d told him: Sometimes when people take responsibility for the things they’ve done—no matter how terrible—it can heal old wounds.
Was that true? Could he fix what he’d done that easily?
Sadly, no. Jenny wasn’t around to apologize to.
Wednesday, December 9
The buzz of her phone woke Emery. She blinked at the light streaming through the cracks in the blinds, realized it was morning and started fumbling through the blankets. Last night, after she’d returned from Santa Barbara and climbed into bed, she’d been shocked to receive a text from Ethan. That he’d have the nerve to contact her after what he’d done, that he’d feel safe enough to do so, boggled her mind.
But the temptation to rub her
