August & Colin | WRU series | book 1
We take risks. We make mistakes. We lie. We love. We hurt. We lose total control.
I took a risk. I paid the price.
I made a mistake. I felt the guilt.
I lied. I lie.
I loved. I try not to.
I hurt. I still do.
...
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In many ways, I'm a reincarnation of my dad. I don't like big crowds, love desserts, and I'm a chaotic mess when it comes to remembering appointments, or rather I'm a chaotic mess overall. However, the one big thing we don't have in common is that he's someone who wears his emotions on his sleeve and doesn't hold back to talk about them. One look and you know what's going on. From a grumpy face to a big smile. You can read him like a children's book. Look at the pictures and you'll know the story even when he's a total stranger to you.
I can read his furrowed brows the moment I barge into the lunch bar, barely on time due to an unexpected turn of events involving an addicting pair of lips and a set of piercing forest green eyes luring me in the opposite direction of where I should've gone to a place I find myself longing to go back to.
The thought of being in his arms makes me bite my inner cheek to suppress the surfacing uncontrollable sheepish smile. It's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous how the thought alone is able to breathe life into the butterflies living in my body.
I feel like an idiot. A smiling, golden retriever happy idiot. But an idiot nonetheless because I'm allowing myself to feel every ounce of emotion that's been building inside of me for over three years even though I don't know if whatever happened in the last 24 hours is anything more than purely physical for him.
Whereas I'm only a mess on the inside, my dad is a mess on the outside too.
"Are you okay?" He glances over the menu card at the sound of my question before flashing me a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Yeah, just work, nothing to worry about, Marchie." For as long as I can remember he's called me Marchie. I'm only August when I'm in deep trouble or when he wants to have a serious conversation, otherwise, it's always Marchie, short for Marshmallow. He told me that once when I was about 5 years old they were having a bonfire with a couple of friends. They left an open bag of marshmallows on the table which I, of course, found. He told me that I fell asleep with the bag in one hand, marshmallows in the other and so many marshmallows in my mouth that my mouth was wide open. When they tried to remove everything I sleepily told them I didn't want to be separated from my marshmallows. Ever since that night, he's called me Marchie because of my 'relationship', as he likes to call it, with marshmallows. There was a time when our strong bond had dissolved into a weak connecting string between strangers living under the same roof that the nickname felt strange, however, right now, the sound of it comfortably rolling off his lips is a warming confirmation of our restored connection.
"Tell me about it," I press because I know how, even though he effortlessly seems to be able to talk about his emotions, he's always reluctant to do it with me because he doesn't want to put his worries on my shoulders. That doesn't take away the fact he puts great value on good communication. It's why throughout the years that passed after my mom and dad's divorce we've been rekindling our relationship because he balanced the idea of giving space and forcing me to open up. He cut back his working hours to focus on reconstructing the ruin that was left of our family. His attempt worked because, as Colin told me a couple of weeks ago, a relationship is created by the input of two people. It's an interaction. A two-way street. It's giving and taking.
