I walked toward the water until the reception building sat far enough behind me that I couldn’t hear voices through the open doors.
There was a bench beside a low wall.
I sat.
For years, I had believed I was good at compartmentalizing.
It was one of those professional skills that sounded healthier than it was.
Put the hard thing in a box.
Deal with the immediate problem.
Come back later.
Sometimes later became five years.
I stared at the water.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Footsteps approached from behind.
I knew who it was without turning.
Ryan sat down next to me.
Still in dress whites.
Still wearing the Trident.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Finally he said,
“You were supposed to yell.”
I looked over.
“What?”
“At Mom. Dad. Me.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’d know what to do.”
I almost smiled.
“You’d yell back.”
“Exactly.”
“That sounds productive.”
He gazed toward the ocean.
“No.”
Another silence.
Then:
“I was cruel to you this morning.”
I said nothing.
He swallowed.
“I’ve been cruel to you for longer than this morning.”
That got my attention.
Ryan rubbed his palms together.
“I used to think you didn’t care.”
“About you?”
“About any of us.”
His voice was rough now.
“You missed everything.”
“I know.”
“Christmas. Birthdays. Mom’s surgery.”
I flinched.
That one still hurt.
“I know.”
“She kept asking if you were coming.”
“I tried.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The flight I was supposed to take was canceled because I was moved.”
“Where?”
