Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“James!” he exclaims, delighted. “My boy!” Grizz flinches and takes a step back. “There you are,” his father continues warmly. “Come here. Let me tell you—God, I was just thinking about you.”
He launches into a speech as if he’d been rehearsing it.
“Remember when we used to go fishing up at the lake every summer? You were so patient, even as a kid. Always had that focus.” He laughs. “And your birthdays—your mother and I never missed one. Balloons everywhere. You always wanted chocolate cake.”
It sounds beautiful, the flood of memories pouring out, and this is exactly the type of welcome I know Grizz needs.
His father keeps going, voice thick with pride. Stories of cheering in cold rinks, of encouraging talks after hard games, of a childhood full of warmth and presence and love. A father who showed up.
I glance at Eliza who’s worrying at her lower lip, then to Grizz, expecting a reaction. Maybe a smile. Some type of acknowledgment.
Instead, he looks angry.
His responses are clipped, almost brutal in their restraint.
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Mm.”
His father doesn’t seem to notice as he beams at Grizz, utterly pleased with himself.
“And then—” His father frowns. “What was I saying?” Confusion clouds his face. The warmth drains away as quickly as it came. “Who are you?” he asks suddenly, agitation creeping in. “Why are you all standing here?”
His hands clench and his breathing quickens. Eliza steps in instinctively, smoothing her voice and touching his arm. “It’s okay, Dad,” she says. “You’re safe. You’re just tired and could use some rest, yeah?”
“I am a little tired,” he admits.
A nurse appears at the doorway, and together she and Eliza coax him back toward the bed, redirecting, calming, grounding him. It’s natural to Eliza, like this is a language she knows how to speak. She almost appears more fluent in the ways of the nurse than the nurse herself.
Grizz, on the other hand, doesn’t move. His face is devoid of any expression as Eliza helps to fluff her dad’s pillow and pours a cup of water for him to sip on.
Abruptly, Grizz pivots and walks out of the room without a word, footsteps heavy against the linoleum.
And I know without needing to look that he’s reached his limit.
Eliza and I exchange a look and she nods toward the door, a silent request that I follow him.
He’s already halfway down the hall when I catch up, his strides long and angry. I call his name once, but he doesn’t stop until we’re outside the unit, the door swinging shut behind us with a muted click.
“Grizz.” He turns then, his body coiled, eyes too bright, putting me on edge. I step closer. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not fucking okay,” he growls. “What a fucking farce!”
I frown, reaching to touch his forearm. “I don’t understand. You got something good in there. A real moment of connection. I know it was hard, but—you should be grateful for the pieces you still get.”
The words barely leave my mouth before I see they land wrong. He stares at me like I’ve just missed the entire point of what’s been tearing him apart for years. “I didn’t get a goddamn thing in there except history rewritten.”
“But—” I gesture over my shoulder, back toward his room. “Those stories…”
“They weren’t real,” he says. His voice isn’t loud. It’s gutted. “None of those memories happened.”
I blink, thrown completely off balance. “What?”
“The fishing trips. The birthdays.” He shakes his head once, dismissive. “None of it.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
“There were no fishing trips. There were no tender bonding moments between father and son. What I remember mostly is that he made me skate until I threw up,” he says, the words clipped and raw. “Over and over. When he rammed into my ten-year-old brain that pain and suffering meant progress.”
My stomach drops.
“If I lost a game, he locked me out of the house,” he continues. “Middle of winter. Told me champions don’t come home losers.”
I feel dizzy.
“He broke a stick over my back once,” he adds flatly. “Split it clean. Said it was my fault for being weak.”
My breath catches audibly now, but he keeps going.
“He told me if I cried, I’d never be good enough. That toughness was the only thing that mattered.” His eyes move away for half a second, then back to me. “So don’t tell me to be grateful for lies. Those stories are easier for him because he doesn’t have to remember what he actually did. He’s got the benefit of living in la-la land.”
I’m horrified. My skin feels too tight and my chest burns. I can’t reconcile the gentle man in that room with the father he’s describing, and the worst part is knowing both versions exist in the same body.
“It’s just… it’s not fair,” he says. “I know he’s sick and I know he needs help, but the reality is, he treated me like shit my entire childhood, and now I’m still dealing with the scars and as far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing but rose-colored history.”