Read It's You for Free Online Page B

hotel. Pretty and manicured but also very empty.
    “Does anyone ever go out there?” I ask, noting the stone benches that look terribly uncomfortable.
    “No. But it’s a nice view.”
    “Mmm.” I stand there another moment but I’m not looking at the roses. I’m thinking about what Dad said regarding Dr. Morris. “I like Dr. Morris. I love him. He’s like my other dad.” I turn to face my father. “And he’s a good dentist. A really good dentist.”
    “Not saying he isn’t. And I think you were cut out to be a dentist. I don’t know that your Andrew was.”
    My
Andrew.
    The heaviness in my chest is back. It’s a weight that never completely lifts, but sometimes bears down, relentless. Crushing. It feels crushing now.
    And beneath the grief is anger. Terrible, terrible anger.
    I keep my back to my dad so he can’t see how much his words hurt, and infuriate, me.
    My Andrew was laughter and light and he made the world a beautiful place. A better place. What was he thinking leaving me here without him? What was he thinking taking the easy way out?
    It’s hard to love.
    It’s hard to live.
    It’s hard to keep one’s courage and optimism . . . to keep believing when life slams into you, wave after wave of pain and disappointment. I know. I’ve been underwater for months here, and yet I just keep swimming and swimming even though my eyes and throat and nose burn with salt and the sharp tang of love lost. Love gone.
    But how to stop swimming? How to give up?
    There’s no part in me willing to accept defeat. Silence.
    What kind of message would that be? What kind of woman would I be to quit now just because it’s hard?
    Of course it’s hard! It’s life. It’s not a carnival ride. It’s not something one signs up for. It’s something you’re thrust into.
    “He was a nice young man,” my dad says from behind me. “I liked him.”
    I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes tight, holding all my emotions in. Dad means well. He’s trying to comfort me. He’s trying . . .
    And yet it suddenly enrages me that he’s waited all these yearsto reach out to me. That all these months when I’m down in Scottsdale trying to carry on that he doesn’t feel any need to connect with me, or comfort me. He’s just assumed that I’m fine. He’s assumed I’ll manage.
    And yes, I’m managing. But my God it hurts.
    And I’m lonely. And scared.
    Scared that I’ll always feel this way. Numb. Dead.
    Angry.
    I dig deep, bearing down on the anger, pressing it down, burying it where it can’t hurt me. Or Dad. I don’t want to be rude to Dad but I’m so confused. He’s spent his whole life immersed in his work and his thoughts and interests. He had thirty years to learn to love me and he never bothered to do it very well.
    He could take care of all those animals but he couldn’t take care of me.
    He couldn’t find time to spend with
me
.
    But no sooner do I feel the anger, than I’m consumed by guilt.
    I shouldn’t need more than I do. I shouldn’t need anything more than what I’ve got. I shouldn’t expect anything at all. I wasn’t raised with expectations. Neither my mother nor my father taught me that I was entitled to anything; every opportunity was to be seized, every advantage taken. And I have worked hard. Very, very hard.
    “You’re angry,” Dad says now, breaking the silence that has stretched far too long.
    I shrug and glance at him. His narrow face is weathered and deeply lined. He’s not a young man. I don’t know how resilient he really is. He says one thing but I can no longer trust that his words reflect reality. It would be easy to remain angry, but it’s not me. It never has been. I prefer moving forward. Not much of a fan of treading water or remaining in place.
    “What was Mom’s secret for dealing with you?” I ask huskily, managing a faint wry smile.
    “She liked me. And she knew my limitations.”
    “I like you, and I’ve a good idea about your limitations. You enjoy your