it?”
“As if.” Emily grunted sinking lower in her seat, kicking off her pumps and letting the warm air flow over her toes. “I haven’t talked to my Dad in years. He doesn’t want anything to do with me…and that’s fine by me.”
“Don’t you think that’s something you should fix?” Harold ventured after a moment.
Emily snorted derisively.
“Why should I? He’s the one who left me.” Emily stiffened realizing what she said. “Oh, crap. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s different with my Dad. He’s not half way across the country. He’s here. If he wanted to see me, he could.”
“It’s not as easy as that, Emily.” Harold sighed. “Maybe he’s tried. Maybe he’s too ashamed, too afraid of what you think about him.”
“He should be,” Emily warned. “I don’t ever want to see him.”
“Emily,” Harold sighed again. “Do you think you’d be this mad if you didn’t care? It’s always the people closest to us that have the power to hurt us the most. It works the other way around, too. We hurt the ones we love…even when we don’t want or intend to. It’s because we do love them that it hurts so much. Opening yourself up to that, risking being hurt, that takes courage. Letting yourself become vulnerable, facing more disappointment…it’s a tough thing to do.”
“Better not to risk it then,” Emily sulked raising a bitter sigh from Harold.
“Maybe.” Harold said, “But I don’t know if I would want to live a life that at least didn’t have the chance for love. I wouldn’t change a thing, if it meant I would never have known Lydia, never had the chance to share her life.”
“That’s masochistic,” Emily said. “I wouldn’t do it. Love isn’t worth getting hurt over.”
Harold laughed, “Well…that answers that question.”
“What question?” Emily asked.
“You’ve never been in love, have you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily flushed, thankful the dim light hid her red cheeks. She’d never even had a boyfriend. Well…just that one time in second grade, but playing post-office behind Billy Damon’s house probably didn’t count.
“Love has everything to do with it. Love is everything. When you come down to it, that’s all that really matters; the people you love.”
“Ugh.” Emily grunted. “Too touchy feely for me.”
“Love isn’t a feeling,” Harold said quietly, “it’s an ability.”
Chapter Ten
Reaching Emily’s house, Harold pulled the car to the curb, the rain continuing to patter down outside. Emily looked out the window toward the split-level white clapboard ranch house with its manicured lawn, trimmed hedges and porch light shining through the rain.
She felt warm and snug wrapped in the blanket despite her wet clothing. “I don’t think I can love. Not anymore.” Emily said, her breath filming on the window as she continued to look at the house where her mother and stepfather lived.
Harold let that pass. He knew how hard it could be to let go of the guilt and the blame; to make yourself open up to other people after you’ve learned to wall them off, keep them out, not let them get close enough to cause you pain. He also knew how false that security was. Something in the human heart, the soul, yearned for a connection to others. No matter how much you tried to keep from feeling it, you always ached for what you didn’t have.
Putting on a façade of callousness, imperviousness, was just that; a façade. A show of toughness that only masked the agony of being separate, apart from human connection. Harold reached for Emily’s hand where it laid in her lap, clasping it in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, letting her know that he knew she didn’t really mean what she said.
What she meant, he knew, was that she was afraid, terrified even of the possibility. They sat like that for a long moment; Emily staring up at the house, unable to understand what she was feeling; Harold
“As if.” Emily grunted sinking lower in her seat, kicking off her pumps and letting the warm air flow over her toes. “I haven’t talked to my Dad in years. He doesn’t want anything to do with me…and that’s fine by me.”
“Don’t you think that’s something you should fix?” Harold ventured after a moment.
Emily snorted derisively.
“Why should I? He’s the one who left me.” Emily stiffened realizing what she said. “Oh, crap. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s different with my Dad. He’s not half way across the country. He’s here. If he wanted to see me, he could.”
“It’s not as easy as that, Emily.” Harold sighed. “Maybe he’s tried. Maybe he’s too ashamed, too afraid of what you think about him.”
“He should be,” Emily warned. “I don’t ever want to see him.”
“Emily,” Harold sighed again. “Do you think you’d be this mad if you didn’t care? It’s always the people closest to us that have the power to hurt us the most. It works the other way around, too. We hurt the ones we love…even when we don’t want or intend to. It’s because we do love them that it hurts so much. Opening yourself up to that, risking being hurt, that takes courage. Letting yourself become vulnerable, facing more disappointment…it’s a tough thing to do.”
“Better not to risk it then,” Emily sulked raising a bitter sigh from Harold.
“Maybe.” Harold said, “But I don’t know if I would want to live a life that at least didn’t have the chance for love. I wouldn’t change a thing, if it meant I would never have known Lydia, never had the chance to share her life.”
“That’s masochistic,” Emily said. “I wouldn’t do it. Love isn’t worth getting hurt over.”
Harold laughed, “Well…that answers that question.”
“What question?” Emily asked.
“You’ve never been in love, have you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily flushed, thankful the dim light hid her red cheeks. She’d never even had a boyfriend. Well…just that one time in second grade, but playing post-office behind Billy Damon’s house probably didn’t count.
“Love has everything to do with it. Love is everything. When you come down to it, that’s all that really matters; the people you love.”
“Ugh.” Emily grunted. “Too touchy feely for me.”
“Love isn’t a feeling,” Harold said quietly, “it’s an ability.”
Chapter Ten
Reaching Emily’s house, Harold pulled the car to the curb, the rain continuing to patter down outside. Emily looked out the window toward the split-level white clapboard ranch house with its manicured lawn, trimmed hedges and porch light shining through the rain.
She felt warm and snug wrapped in the blanket despite her wet clothing. “I don’t think I can love. Not anymore.” Emily said, her breath filming on the window as she continued to look at the house where her mother and stepfather lived.
Harold let that pass. He knew how hard it could be to let go of the guilt and the blame; to make yourself open up to other people after you’ve learned to wall them off, keep them out, not let them get close enough to cause you pain. He also knew how false that security was. Something in the human heart, the soul, yearned for a connection to others. No matter how much you tried to keep from feeling it, you always ached for what you didn’t have.
Putting on a façade of callousness, imperviousness, was just that; a façade. A show of toughness that only masked the agony of being separate, apart from human connection. Harold reached for Emily’s hand where it laid in her lap, clasping it in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, letting her know that he knew she didn’t really mean what she said.
What she meant, he knew, was that she was afraid, terrified even of the possibility. They sat like that for a long moment; Emily staring up at the house, unable to understand what she was feeling; Harold
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