62

Deacon

HINDSIGHT IS TWENTY-TWENTY

Since arriving in Minnesota, I’d avoided being alone with my father. I’d gone over to my parents’ for dinner but left before Dad had a chance to corner me. He hadn’t said anything hurtful yet, but I dreaded encountering the version of him I remembered—the one who did nothing but criticize me. I didn’t need him making me feel inadequate when I already felt pretty damn shitty since leaving Carys the way I did.

It appeared I could only hide for so long, though. I was shoveling snow outside my grandmother’s house one day when I looked up to see my Dad’s red truck.

Sticking the shovel into the snow, I leaned on it as I watched him approach. He reached over to brush some snow off my coat, and I felt my eyes widen. It was rare my father touched me. Aside from the brief hug I’d given him when I first arrived here, there had been no other contact—no handshakes or pats on the back.

I stepped back. “What’