A week has passed by since I got home, and I've spent every day of it trying to distract myself from my thoughts.
Instead of sulking in my room, wallowing in my sorrows over a new TV series, I've been spending every moment outside. Running, climbing up hills, laying in the sun; it all makes it feel like the camp never ended.
Only it did, and there's no Axel right next to me telling me to keep going farther. Instead, it's just me and my lonely thoughts.
I run back up the road to my house panting, my face tomato red as I wipe my forehead with the front of my shirt. As I walk up to my front door to go back inside, I see my father unlocking it after a long day at work.
I catch my breath and grab the door handle after he walks in. He turns around and sees me.
"You like to run now?" Confusion overtakes his face, as if he didn't remember what I had been doing for over a month away from him.
"I mean, I went to a fitness camp," I state, stepping inside the house, the cool of the air conditioning greeting me.
"Right," he answers with a nod, seeming the slightest bit embarrassed. Instead of asking about my experience, he walks up the stairs without saying anything else. I close my eyes for a second and heave out an exhausted breathânot from my workout, but from him.
I go upstairs and take a long shower, staying under the showerhead until my conscience remembers the environment could use some sparing. There's just something about the shower that makes you feel like you can get your life together in minutes, even though most of the time, you can't.
After I get dressed, I step out into the hallway and find my mother leaving her room. "Oh good you're here, Whitney," she says. "We need to go dress shopping for you for the wedding."
"Already?" I ask until it hits me again. "Oh my god, not already. It's in two weeks."
"You got that right," she chuckles, taking the first few steps down. "I'll be waiting in the car."
Before heading to a dress boutique, we stop for a late lunch at a sandwich café in town. As I walk in, I see a familiar face in the corner organizing plates. I decide to walk up to her.
"Miranda?" I question, recognizing that fiery red hair anywhere. She glances up, her eyes surveying me with slight confusion before she talks.
"Oh, it's you," she says, taking a second to recognize me. "What's up?"
"Nothing really," I answer with a shrug. I catch a glance of the name on her name tag: Miranda Campbell.
"Wait a second, are you related to Bob and Cindy?" I blurt. She raises a brow, amused at my epiphany.
"I'm their daughter, if that clarifies anything," she replies, taking a stack of small white plates and putting them up on a shelf.
"Seriously?" She nods. "So wait...why would you run away if your parents own the camp?"
"Like I told you, they forced me to go here," she replies bluntly. "And the camp was full of bitches."
She was sure right about that. "So did you know about the notes?"
She looks over at me again and gives me a nod. "I knew everything about that camp. Even including who wrote them. It's not that hard to dig up easy secrets."
"But why didn't you tell me?" I ask, furrowing my brows. I don't understand why she would hide that from me, especially after I asked her.
"Well think of it of one way," she begins, finally turning around and glancing at me straight ahead. "Did anything good come out of them?"
I think through that question in my head.
I realized one of my friends was a fake.
And found that the one person, Willow, who I assumed would have been behind the notes, was not.
Maybe it really didn't turn out to be that bad.
"I guess some of it did..." I answer. "But you didn't have to make wait weeks to find out."
"Truthfully, it was kind of funny seeing you all worked up over them," she says, and I glare at her. "But I want you to know that I think you're a pretty great person. Maybe the best at that camp."
"Well thanks," I mutter. "Anyway, see you around I guess."
"You too, Whitney," she answers and returns to work.
***
Dress shopping is not an easy task.
I'd always assumed that once I got in shape, shopping would be the easiest chore. But now as I stare at the growing stack of dresses I've already tried on in the fitting room, I realize I have a very different problem.
I like how all of them look on me.
I hear my mom's bored sighs behind the door, and I shuffle through the pile again and pull out the first one I tried on. It's a muted pink color with a slightly cinched waist and falls a couple inches above my knees. I twirl around in it and mess with different hairstyles before deciding this is it.
I open the door.
"You found it," Mom says without a word from me. "This is the one."
As we get climb into the car to drive back home, my mother turns to me. "Are you alright, Whitney? You've been a little reserved the past week."
I shrug, staring at the center console. "I don't know. I guess, in theory, I'm fine."
"Did something happen, honey?"
I bite the corner of my lip. Is there a need to hide from her what's wrong with me?
"Mom," I begin, taking a pause to try to find the right words to say. "I met someone at that camp...well, being honest, I met my trainer, and I kind of, sort of, really like him. And then something happened, and I haven't known how to feel ever since. I don't know what to do."
"Did he hurt you?" she asks, and her question throws me off guard.
"Not physically," I answer firmly. "But emotionally, slightly." Actually my eighteen-year-old, stupidly-in-love heart has cracked in half, but you know.
"Do you want to tell me more about it?" she asks, giving me a small smile. I decide maybe it won't be a bad idea. Fifteen minutes later, I've explained to her almost everything, and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest.
"The part about your father's history, I can't say that's new news," she says, looking off in the distance. "He had a lot of issues in the past, but he's not like that anymore."
"I know," I say, but it doesn't come out with as much conviction as I wished. "It's just a lot to process."
"I can talk to your father," she says, but I shake my head at the mention of that idea.
"Mom, I think the only person who needs to do that is myself."
"I agree," she murmurs, pulling into our driveway. I get out of the car and take my dress up to my room, admiring it in the light before stowing it away. As I walk down the stairs, I bump into my father once again.
"Oh sorry," he apologizes, and I nod, continuing down the stairs. I hear them creak behind me, feeling my dad at my heels. "Whitney, I want to ask you something."
I stare at him blankly for a moment, my eyes burning into his gray ones. "What is it?"
"Do you want to join me for a round of golf at the country club?"
"Did someone ask you to bring me along?" I blurt this out before I can even tell him yes or no.
"No, no. I'm genuinely asking you," he replies. "You can say no if you don't want to." It doesn't make sense; in my eighteen years of living I don't remember him ever asking me to accompany him to anything. But maybe this is the perfect opportunity for me to talk to him without the interruptions he always puts between us.
"No, I'll go."
"Alright, I'll be waiting." His voice is clipped and distant.
The ride is quiet on the way to the golf course, and I feel uncomfortable. Awkward silence settles between us, and I shift in my seat as I stare out the window. We share a short conversation as he picks up the golf clubs, and we make it across the green.
"Here." He hands me one of the clubs, and I take it from him, trying to get a good grip on it with my hands. I have hardly any experience with this sport, but I can somehow manage. He swings the club and the ball flies across into the air, landing far away from where we are. I take a turn next and let out a deep breath before swinging. Miraculously, the ball sails a significant distance, turning into a white speck.
We keep swinging and hitting, swinging and hitting, until I put my club down and look at him.
"I don't get it," I say, leaning my weight on one leg. "We don't do this kind of thing, golfing, ever."
He looks up, squinting slightly from the sunlight. "I know, Whitney." I didn't expect that to be his answer, nor did I expect a trace of guilt behind it.
"Well, alright then, I guess."
He puts down his club and sighs. "I mean, I know it's my fault why, Whitney."
There is another moment of silence before I speak up again, my voice straining. "You didn't have to do much, you know..."
He looks down at the ground. "But I didn't even do anything. I've never been a great father to you, and I know it. You don't have to tell me."
I look down and breathe slowly. "How come you're only realizing it now?"
"I hadn't expected this to turn into a conversation like this..." I don't say anything, knowing that if I'm silent for long enough, he'll speak.
"By the time I realized I was treating you wrong, I figured it was too late. You weren't little anymore, and my mistakes couldn't be absolved by a piggyback ride or a trip to the zoo. But I know most of all, I didn't want to own up to the fact I was becoming my own father. He loved my older brother because he was like him: played all these sports, was the captain of everything, and even joined the military like he did. I always felt second best, and knowing I made my own daughter feel that way ate me alive, Whitney, but I'm not very good at dealing with guilt." He drags his hand through his hair and rests it on the nape of his neck, staring off at endless green of the golf course. He blinks a few times, and I try to convince myself that I'm seeing things, not that his eyes are actually glassy.
"You could've at least tried," I say quietly. "Anything would have been better than nothing, Dad."
His eyes trail upwards to my face. "I know, Whitney. I know. I just thought it was too late. You already hated me."
I gulp at his words, my stomach hurting from the truth. "I didn't want to hate you, Dad. I just eventually figured feeling that way was justified since you never really cared. But I wanted you to so bad." He takes a step towards me, and I find myself backing up. His expression drops, but I look away to not let it affect me.
"I always cared, Whit. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. I understand if you don't want to hear this right now because no amount of my words can justify how little I've done to prove it. I've made so many mistakes in my life, so many that have left me with guilt that I do everything to run away from. I know not being there for you all these years is one of them."
"And now I'm stuck in one of your messes that you never fixed." I didn't intend to say this out loud, but I can't take it back.
He looks dumbfounded. "Wait, what do you mean?" I prepare myself for what I'm about to say, because it's anything but a light matter.
"Dad, you remember someone by the name of Christian Chandler?" The name makes him freeze in his spot, and his knuckles whiten from his grip on his golf club. After a moment, he finally answers me.
"I could never forget."
I nod, opening my mouth hesitantly. I know there's no easy way to go about this subject, so I don't bother simplifying it. "I met his son."
"His son," my father repeats after some time and mutters it again. I worry he'll have me repeat that, because it doesn't seem to be settling.
I muster up some strength to talk. "Yeah, his son. I met him at the camp I went to."
He places his fingers under his chin and nods, as if the fact is starting to sink in. "What are the odds in the world that you would end up meeting him..."
"Very strange odds," I mumble, not wanting to disclose that the fact we met wasn't entirely by chance. "But I'm here to tell you that what happened between you and his father is now ruining something between me and him."
"I know this is my fault," he says quietly. "Christian was such a good man; I should've been a better person to him."
"But what did you do wrong?" I ask. I've gotten the side from Axel, from Poppy, even from my mother, but none of them can provide as authentic of a truth as the man in front of me.
"There was a promotion, and even though my position in the company was higher than him, either of us could have gotten it. I sabotaged his chance in a way I'm not proud of, and it ended up getting him fired," he says, rubbing the wrinkles on his forehead. "I basically ruined his reputation, knowing that his job was helping support two young kids."
"His sonâAxelâhe believed that I would be as horrible as you were then to his father. He felt like you were a part of his death but blamed me, as messed up as that seems." As I speak, he seems to be stilled by memories, and the regret on his face deepens.
"I remember him as a boy," he states, and my head snaps up. "I only saw him a few times, but he was such a nice kid. After that accident, I knew I'd live with burning guilt remembering a young, innocent boy lost his father. But I didn't kill Christian, Whitney. I tried to save him."
"What exactly happened in that accident?" I ask. I've never found it in me to look up the news articles from it, and it's not exactly something my family talks about at the dinner table.
"It was the day Christian got fired, and some of us from the company were heading home." He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. "The train car derailed, and the section opposite to where I was sitting got hit the worst. When the car tipped over, Christian hit his head against one of the metal sidings, and I lunged to grab him before it was too late. But I failed. Six more people died that day."
I can only imagine how horrible it must have been to witness, and I can't imagine how awful Axel must have felt that night. The whole situation is devastating.
"I know you didn't kill him, Dad," I tell him softly. "But Axel doesn't see the whole situation that way."
"God, if I had the chance to do it all over I'd do it right," he says. "I don't think I'll ever get over that day, even knowing that I wasn't the cause of his death. I just never expected that somehow you'd end up with his son. How the hell did that happen?" His question is more rhetorical than anything, and I'm glad, because I wouldn't want to answer that. He looks up again. "Is he a good guy like his father, at least?"
I nod. "He is." I think for a moment. "Thank you for telling me, at least. That means something."
He then reaches forward to give me a hug, and I stiffen, not wanting it to last for more than a few seconds. When his arms tighten around my back, I can't let go and melt into the fatherly comfort, feeling tears that I won't let him see brim my eyes.