Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Gray asks, his arm wrapped around my thin back. I sink my head of ragged black curls onto his shoulder and remain there for a moment. We're in one of the call booths sitting down on the bench.
"No," I reply, "but I have to."
Gray's fingers run delicately through my hair, and I purr at his comforting touch. My eyes are droopy, longing to fall asleep in his protective envelop. Except I know that, if I fall asleep, I'll only dream of my father and this dreaded call.
When I told Gray that I wanted to call my father, he insisted on being here for me. I couldn't help but sink into his arms the second he arrived at Neo, and we've been inseparable since. No matter how nervous I am about calling my father, knowing that Gray will be right beside me the whole time steadies me.
Taking in a long deep breath, I stir from Gray's grasp and inch toward the phone, unhooking it from the wall. Carefully I dial the number for my father's rehab facility that Nessie procured for me. It rings twice before a young woman picks up, "Hope Hill Recovery Center. How can I assist you today?"
"Hi. I'd like to speak with Henry Wills."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Paris Wills," I pause, "his son."
***
The young woman puts me on hold while she redirects my call, and the next few minutes drag on. My stomach churns with anxiety, and I swallow the noxious vomit threatening to bubble up to the surface. I clutch my sore abdomen in desperation, unsure if I can go through with this after all. What if he doesn't pick up? What if he doesn't want to talk to me?
Gray senses my spiraling nerves and gently places his hand over mine.
"I've got you. I've always got you," Gray whispers, his soft voice playing on a loop like a scratched record. His warmth radiates through my chest and I resist the urge to kiss him, afraid I might drop the phone. Instead, I give him a swift peck on the cheek and watch his skin take on a pale pink hue.
"Thank you for being here," I say, looking up at Gray's shimmering green eyes. They watch over me like glimmering green planets swirling around my clouded sky.
"I'll always be here for you," Gray assures with a wink, and it messes up my stomach in a completely different way.
"Paris, is that you?"
My heart quickens its pace. I consider hanging up the phone, but shake the thought away. It would be easy to walk out of the call booth and forget I ever dialed the number in the first place. Except, sometimes, the right thing to do isn't the easiest thing to do.
Gray's hand remains tight in mine, his grip providing me with the necessary courage to proceed.
"Yep, it's me."
For a moment, there's silence. Then, I hear weeping on the other end. He sounds like a little boy bawling about a skinned knee rather than a grown man, and it crushes me. I've never heard my father so broken; it's as if his heart has been sliced a million times and he can't quite pick up all the pieces.
"I'm so sorry," he musters in between snivels.
"You should be," I respond. Gray tugs at my hand, reminding me to be honest without vexation.
"I know and I-"
"Let me finish," I interject softly, trying not to come off as irritated, "After Mom died, I thought everything would be alright. You were always there for me. Until you weren't. I needed my dad, but he was too busy trying to disappear from my life to care."
My eyes begin to water and a film of saliva collects on my lips. I pause to catch my breath.
"I never stopped caring about you. I just couldn't stop thinking about your mom and how empty the world felt without her. The bed was cold. Her nightstand was cleared. There was nothing left of her."
I can understand how my father feels. I'm not sure how I would survive if Gray died. He knows me better than anyone else. And I love him more than he could ever imagine.
"That's not true. You have me," I console with a slim grin. A chuckle passes through the phone and I can picture my father smiling too.
"You're right. I lost sight of that. But I hope you can forgive me for that."
"I think I can. If you give me time."
"Of course!" My father exclaims, relief etched in the cheerful crack of his voice.
"Can you forgive me? I wasn't just angry at you. I was angry at mom. Angry at the Universe for taking her away. I put that all on you and that wasn't fair to you."
"Paris, I'm your father. It's my job to forgive you and love you. I haven't been doing my job well for the last few years, but that ends now. If you'l have me, I want a second chance."
My nose twitches with the tickle of tears and I let out a slight sob, overjoyed to hear that my dad cares about me and wants to be in my life. All I have to do now is let him in.
***
We continued to chat for an hour or so, Gray's grip loosening on my hand but never letting go. Eventually, the young woman from earlier beeped in and told us we had to end the call.
Chatting surprisingly felt familiar and refreshing. Though my dad and I hadn't conversed in years, we managed to pick up right where we left off. I detailed my summer escapades with Gray and described my time at Neo. Additionally, I told him about Sabina and André and found out that he's also made a new friend, a recovering alcoholic named Tate. We fell into a natural rhythm that it was difficult to end the call, until my dad assured me that we would talk again soon.
For once, I actually trust him.
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