Time is a mysterious concept. While it's true that a minute is only sixty seconds, it doesn't always feel like that. Sometimes, those sixty seconds feel sped up, racing by and making you feel like you'll never have enough of them. Other times, like right now, those sixty seconds roll by in painstakingly slow ticks. Each and every lingering one accounted for.
The apartment complex ahead of me looks solid in construction, but it's scattered in patches of peeling paint, flaking off in tiny pieces, worn by the storms it's been through.
I feel almost frozen while I sit in my car, a tattered box my only companion in the passenger seat as I stare at every detail in front of me a hundred times over. I've been avoiding the real reason I'm here, sitting back and making up stories about each household. Giving them all a background and life that most likely doesn't match an ounce of who they actually are.
Like the balcony with the treadmill. I've decided that's a single man, just starting out in his career. He lives here to make ends meet while he works his way up the ladder at work. He'll eventually move, get one of those places along the water, the ones ridiculously overpriced simply because they have the words "ocean view" attached to the listing.
There's a balcony covered in plants, every inch of railing lined in some type of greenery, and they're flourishing. I wonder who lives there. If they have a passion for gardening or a slight addiction to buying plants every outing. Maybe they just like the feel of living in a more forested area, rather than looking out their window and seeing a similar wall of apartments across the street. Do they live alone? Maybe the plants keep them company.
It's very different from the balcony beside it. Christmas lights are still strung from the railing, dangling over the side and wrapping around the post that leads to the roof. There's also a playhouse taking up half the space and a bike hangs from the overhang, all showing a more family friendly environment that has me smiling.
A few of the balconies are empty, giving me a bit of a challenge when coming up with a story. Some have limited furniture or just a simple barbecue. Those are the ones that have my heart reminding me why I'm here. It's in the way it tightens and then pounds so damn loud that I keep pulling my eyes back to the place coated in greenery. The one overcome in plants. For whatever reason, that's the one that keeps me calm. It's got this energy about it, a distraction, a soothing effect. It takes my mind off the fact that my dad resides in one of those apartments up there. Most likely one of the empty ones. The ones making my heart jump.
My eyes fall to the box beside me, sitting alone on the seat. I've combed through every letter, let the words wrap around me in this overwhelming blanket of conflicting emotion. Some of them were hard to read, some gave me hope. I think in a really messed up way, his time spent locked behind bars might've saved him. I don't exactly know for sure, but there was a change in his letters over time. A gentleness, reprieve, acceptance. It's the only thing that has me staring at the apartment complex, getting ready to face the one person that's had me running for years.
One letter in particular stuck out to me. He mentioned facing the demons of his past. Accepting his many mistakes, owning them and asking for forgiveness. From me, from my mom, from God. It would seem he joined some kind of church within the stone walls of prison. Something to give him his own sense of hope, of healing. I don't think I've ever looked at his mistakes as something to heal from, as an illness. But reading that letter, it made me realize that he's been running too.
My mom mentioned facing her past, that it was the key to moving forward. It's why I opened the letters, why I let him back in. But I think we all have to face what he did in order to move on. And I think the fact he has been facing his mistakes, acknowledging them as such, has given him hope. I want it to give me hope, too. Because that's what all of this is for.
This whole scenario hinges on hope and trust. Hope that he's the key to everything, trust that he won't be the man I've always feared him to be. Because if he is, if he's still the villain of my story, I don't know how to piece the broken shards back together. And that fact scares the shit out of me.
The small chime has me jumping in my seat, pulling my eyes away from the many balconies full of stories and down to my phone in my lap. Grayson's name flashes across the screen, lighting up that darkened piece of me and giving it all the fuzzy warm feelings he's so damn good at inflicting. Even from a distance.
Grayson: June made me ride the train with her at the mall. I think I finally understand the thrill
I'm smiling. A nice change in pace as I quickly type out a response.
Mia: I don't know whether to be infuriated that she rode with someone other than me or flat out jealous that she got to ride it with you.
His immediate response keeps my heart warm.
Grayson: Someday I'll ride it with you
Someday.
When I have my shit figured out and I'm not shoving this giant wedge between us.
Mia: I'm going to hold you to that
Grayson: I wouldn't expect any less Tink
I let my head fall to the headrest, dropping my phone to my lap as I remember why I'm here. There's this part of me aching to start the engine, to pull away and chalk this whole thing up to a good old fashioned try. But then all of this would be for nothing. All this space I've forced between Grayson and me, it would be for nothing. I didn't ask him to wait just so I could take a trip home and return to campus just as fucked up as when I left.
I can't.
I can't keep living life halfway. I can't keep everyone at this safe distance when they deserve more. He deserves more. I deserve more.
So, my car door swings open and my breaths fall into these heavy heaves as I gather every ounce of strength lingering in the air. There's a strong smell of the ocean. It's only about a block away, and the smell of seaweed is thick in the air, the signs of a storm approaching. It feels poetic. Like the universe knows my life is about to explode and even the ocean is stirring.
I stride forward, pushing my way into the building. The halls feel tight, closing ever so slowly with each step I take, making my way past each number on the doors, edging closer and closer to the address my mom gave me. The constriction of my throat burns with every inch forward, my chest getting all tingly, my hands developing this shake that has me thrusting them out to the side.
I can do this.
With two more strides, I catch the numbers I'm looking for, pulling myself in front of the door. I can't help but scan the floor, noticing a plain black doormat. Beside it sits a pair of work boots, dirtied around the edges. There's a veil of ache that caresses my heart, a realization that I don't know the man that lives behind this door. The man I once knew lived in crisp, clean suits and always polished, spotless shoes. I know that because I remember stepping on them once only to get yelled at for adding a scuff to them.
I don't remember boots in the closet I used to play in. I loved running into my parents' closet, pulling my mom's scarves from the hanger and wrapping myself up in them. I used to parade around in her heels, sometimes grabbing my dad's fancy work shoes and clogging around the house like I was just as high powered as he was. But I never once found a pair of dirty boots of his to slip into.
That small wave of hope crashes against me again.
I don't know this version of him.
He's not the man I once knew.
My hand lifts to the door, a deep and painful breath filling my lungs as I bring my knuckles up, hesitating. As soon as I knock, there's no going back. I'm opening a door to reconnecting, to letting him back in when I've fought so hard to keep him out.
Before I have the chance to decide this is truly what I want, the door flies open, my hand falling to my side as the familiar set of brown eyes comes colliding with mine.
Breathing is instinctual. Your body does it without your consent, pulling in the necessary oxygen while releasing the toxic exhale of air it no longer needs. It's a sign of living. Yet somehow, my body has forgotten how that concept works, frozen in this hypnotic state as I stare at the man I once knew. He's in there, I can see it in the eyes I spent the first few years of my life staring up at. But he's so much different.
"Mia," his voice falls out, shocking my body back into the state of the living as my heart jumpstarts, pounding erratically in my chest. A chest that's suddenly heaving with needed air.
"Hi," I whisper, a weak attempt at getting any form of words out. There's a scar slicing through his right eyebrow. It's thick, prominent. It wasn't there before. And the thought of how he must have gotten it has my stomach tightening.
"You're... You're here."
His voice echoes across my head, bouncing off of memories that have clung to these tiny visions of good times and miserable ones. The familiarity in his sound both rattles and settles me at the same time, only adding to this fluster of emotions that swirl around my gut when it comes to him.
"Yeah," I nod, letting my eyes drop to the jacket in his hand. "You're leaving. I'm sorry, I should have let you know I was coming. I can–"
"No," he steps forward, causing me to take a step back, one I wasn't trying to take. He pauses, taking a small step back inside. "Don't go. I was just headed to a meeting but I can postpone."
"I don't want to mess with your work," I shake my head.
"Mia," he stops me from taking another step back as his words fall. "It's not that kind of meeting."
Oh. Oh.
"There's another one tonight. I'll go to that. But right now... Will you please come in?" he asks, taking a step to the side and opening an arm to his place.
There's this voice screaming at me to turn around, to bolt back down the hall. It's the one that has my chest all tight and constricted. But there's another voice lying alongside that one. It's the one reminding me of all I have to gain. The one flashing me reminders of chocolate eyes and warm embraces.
I don't manage to get another word out in acknowledgment. Instead, I take a few steps forward, planting myself inside his place. As I walk by, I take a lingering glance at the stubble across his face, at the lines etched around his eyes. He never was one to let his hair grow and yet the shaggy disarray of hair atop his head actually suits him. It matches the scruff he has going on. But it doesn't match the man who used to take pride in his clean cut appearance.
I remember sitting up on the sink, watching him shave, wondering what he would look like with a beard like my friend's dad had. I told him that once. That I wanted to see what he would look like. He laughed, saying I would never get the chance to see him looking unkempt. I remember because I had to ask him to define the word for me.
But now... Now he's the definition of unkempt and he seems to be perfectly content that way.
"Can I get you anything?" he questions, heading toward the kitchen. "Water? I might have something else. I don't usually have guests," he laughs nervously, opening the fridge. "But I might have something in here."
"I'm okay," I reply, stepping into the living room. My eyes fall to the walls, taking in the mostly empty space. A picture of the New York skyline hangs above the couch and there's a cross hanging in a small space that leads to the kitchen. The place looks minimal but cozy, lived in.
"Do you want to sit?" he asks, pulling my eyes from the wall and over to the couch beside me. I can't help but hesitate again, lingering on my feet, fearful of creating something. "Mia?" he questions in my silence. But I can't seem to find the response, to muster up the words of why I'm here or to settle into his couch and begin building some type of relationship.
I take a breath, the need for air causing my eyes to travel to the patio. And that's when I see it. When I see the wall of greenery draping along the balcony. My feet carry me to the slider, pulling it open and stepping out into the cold air, my eyes searching the vibrant shades of various green.
"I like to garden," he says from behind me. "A little hard when you don't actually have a yard," he laughs quietly. "But I've made do."
"This is all you?" I question, spinning around to face him.
"It is," he smiles. "I guess I've switched one addiction for another," he laughs. But when I don't return the same acknowledgement of humor, he clears his throat, taking a small step outside to join me. "Sorry. Bad joke. I just... I needed a hobby. Something to keep me busy, focused, disciplined, I guess. Someone at group gave me this housewarming plant," he steps toward a pot of flourishing vines. "I hadn't a clue what I was doing but through a little research and a lot of trial and error I figured it out. I liked it. Trying to give it exactly what it needed. I bought another one, trying my luck on something different. And I guess I just couldn't stop."
I nod, looking back at the variety of green leaves and small pops of colors. My eyes land on one in the corner. "This one is pretty," I smile, reaching for a pink and purple flower. "It looks like a–"
"Ballerina," his voice has me turning. There's a smile on his face as my hand falls from the plant. He takes a small step forward, finger lifting to point toward the flower at my side. "You used to love those when you were a kid. Said they looked just like ballerinas."
My eyes drop back to the plant, scanning the various flowers elegantly hanging.
"You, uh..." he continues, taking another step forward, planting himself in front of the flowers as he reaches out a hand, letting one of them fall between his fingers. "You had this whole ballerina phase. I remember I bought you a pink tutu. It was covered in sparkles. We're talking a ridiculous amount of sparkles. You wore that thing every day for a whole month. Didn't matter if we were going to the store or the park, you had to have that tutu on."
I nod slowly, the memory he's speaking of lost on me. "Oh, I don't remember that."
"Right," his smile drops a bit, his hand falling back to his side as he offers a slow nod. "It was a long time ago. You were so young. Do you still dance, though? You were so determined you'd be a prima ballerina."
There's this sharp spark that slices across my chest. It's surrounded in a familiar sense of anger, the one that often surfaces where my dad is concerned. But it's more than that. There's sadness there. A feeling of missing something I never had. Of letting so many years go by, growing into this version of who I've become while he hasn't even a glimpse of who that person is. All he knows is the tiny girl who loved to dance. The girl who twirled around in sparkling tutus and dreamed of ballerina fantasies.
But that anger that lies beneath it all is louder than the sadness. It's easier than sadness. Because it's his fault he doesn't know this version of me. It's his mistakes that have created this distance between us, this broken version of myself. The one that can't just be happy with someone who loves me so damn much. With someone I want to be able to love back.
"No," I answer sharply. "I don't want to be a ballerina. And to be honest, I can't even remember dreaming that dream. But you wouldn't know that because you haven't been here."
"Mia," he exhales. "I have tried to be part of your life in the only way I could."
"Right," I nod, taking a step back and letting the anger take over my words. "Through the countless letters you've sent over the years. Letters, Dad. The only thing I was left with were letters because of the choices you made. Choices that still haunt me today."
He winces, his hand sliding down his face as he searches for words. "My choices shouldn't haunt you, Mia."
"You're right. They shouldn't. But that doesn't seem to keep all the bad shit from surfacing, from preventing me from actually living. Does it?"
"Mia," he reaches out, but I can't do this. I can't run down memory lane like I'm still that little girl admiring her daddy, prancing around in some godforsaken tutu that he bought me.
"No," I throw out, brushing past him and making my way back to the door. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have listened to the glimmers of hope.
"Mia, just wait. Please. You can't keep running."
His words bring me to a stop. Running. I want to keep running. I want to keep pushing everything into a little blue box and closing it up tight for another day. I want to ignore all the shit that has me spinning. But if I do that, if I run, I don't think I'll ever stop.
I spin around, letting the tears sting my eyes, letting him see the pain he etched into my heart for years. "I hate you," I let the words rip from my chest. "I hate you for what you did. Something inside me died that day and it's your fault."
He takes a small step forward, his hand lifting in some form of comfort that I can't seem to bear, so I step back, ripping myself away from him as a sob rattles my chest.
"I saw a therapist, you know," I cry, sucking in a breath to find my composure. "For months after it happened. Mom was worried and Tommy thought it might help. I overheard the doctor tell them that I was lucky. That I might have been just young enough to not remember what happened. But I remember everything, Dad. I may not remember the ballerina hopes you've been holding onto all this time, but I remember lots of other things. I remember what you did in New York before Mom and I ever ran away. I remember you hurting her. I remember her crying. I remember it all."
There's pain across his eyes, a shield of tears filling them. But he doesn't get to take this moment. He gets to feel it. To see what he's done.
"It's kept me scared for as long as I can remember, crippled at the idea of it happening to me one day. Handing over that kind of control to someone in the name of love and having Mom's reality become mine. And now, I don't even know how to let someone love me. I have someone in my life who loves me, Dad, and I don't know how to let him in. I can't let him in," my voice breaks, shattering to the ground.
He's still standing frozen, my sobs taking up the space between us. I can see the tears pooling over in his eyes, the streaks slowly trickling down his cheeks. I hate that he gets to see me break. I hate that he gets to break alongside me.
"Listen, I know the mistakes I've made. I know that no amount of time and repentance will make up for what I've done. But you don't deserve to live with my demons. They're for me to burden, not you. And if I know one thing, it's that you're far too smart to ever fall for someone like your old man."
"You're right," I clear my throat, wiping away the tears. "He's nothing like you. And yet, I still can't offer him my whole heart."
"You deserve to be loved Mia, to fall in love. I may not know a whole lot about the woman you've become, or been there for you in the way a father should be. But if I can offer you anything, it's that love is worth the pain of potential loss. Trust me. I would fall in love with your mother a hundred times over, even though I lose her in the end. Don't let my mistakes be the reason you keep running. Don't let it be your excuse to shut that part of you down."
I can't help laughing. "I think it's a little too late to be offering fatherly advice. Finding the church and going to meetings doesn't make up for what you did."
"I know it doesn't. Nothing will ever make up for what I did. That's something I have to live with, and I know it's not half of what I deserve. But it's my nightmare to carry. And if you never want to see me again, Mia, I wouldn't question it. But if you're willing to try and make something work here, I'd be so grateful for the opportunity to rebuild something with you. That's all I can offer. Your happiness means everything to me, even if I don't get to be in the picture."
"So, that's it? As long as I'm happy, you'll be fine just walking away?"
"No. But this isn't about me. I lost the right to be in your life when I laid a hand on your mother. You should have never had to witness that, to believe that's what love looks like. It's not, Mia. Love didn't do that to me, to us. My drinking did. My past did. A past I've been learning to face. But love isn't the reason we fell apart. And it's not the thing you should fear."
"It's all I know."
"It's all I've taught you," he corrects me. "But it's not all you know."
The silence suffocates the room, filling every ounce of space, swirling around in this overwhelming swarm of realization. He's right. He did teach me to fear love, to fear what it could become. He took that little girl that dreamt of Prince Charming and happily ever afters and tainted that vision. He turned it dark and empty. But it's not all I know.
What I know is that love has the ability to blossom, to grow with time. I've seen it in my grandparents. In the way they still cherish one another. I see it in my aunt and uncle and how they've modeled nothing but passion and adoration for one another. And I've seen it in my mom and Tommy. In a man who stepped into our lives, embracing us both wholeheartedly and offering the kind of love that fairytales are made of.
The man standing in front of me may have taken a lot of innocence from me, but I think I've clung to the past for too long. I never let that little girl lift her head from under the covers. I've kept her trembling away in the dark, singing to drown out the noise. But I don't want to keep hiding. I don't want to stay in the dark.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," I whisper, letting the strength wrap its arms around the pain that's still clinging to my words.
"I understand."
"And I'm not ready to spend weekends catching up or holiday gatherings together," I add, watching as he nods his head, his fingers sliding through his lengthened hair. "But I think," I continue, bringing his eyes back to me. "Maybe, I'm ready to leave the door open."
A smile begins to grow across his face, thickening the lines around his eyes. "Heck, Mia, I'll take a damn crack in the window."
I can't help but smile, letting the moment lighten. I don't know where we go from here. I don't know what it is that my heart is trying to feel, but I do know that I can't keep it locked away anymore. And opening this door, leaving a crack in the window, seems like a place to start in healing the wounds of my past.
"A window sounds good."