Chapter 92 Coffee And Closure
Harper's POV,
I called Richard three days later and agreed to meet for coffee.
Not because I forgave him. Not because his explanations made everything okay. But because Crew was right—once he died, I couldn't get the choice back. And I'd spent too many years with questions to let him take the answers to his grave.
We met at a café near the motel. Neutral territory. Public enough that I felt safe, quiet enough that we could actually talk.
Richard was already there when I arrived, looking worse than he had three days ago. The cancer was moving fast.
"Thank you for coming," he said as I sat down.
"I almost didn't." I ordered black coffee from the waitress, nothing else. This wasn't a social visit. "You have an hour. That's all I'm giving you."
"That's more than I deserve."
We sat in awkward silence for a moment. He looked older in daylight—skin yellowed, hands trembling slightly. Dying visibly.
"Tell me about your husband," Richard said finally. "How did you meet?"
So I told him. The abbreviated version—fake dating arrangement, fell in love, moved to Vancouver, got married. Left out the parts about Crew's addiction, about Joel, about all the complicated damage that led us to each other.
"He seems like a good man," Richard observed.
"He is. He's honest. He shows up. He doesn't run when things get hard." I looked at him pointedly. "Everything you weren't."
He flinched but nodded. "You're right. I ran from everything. My debts. My family. My responsibilities. I've been running my whole life."
"Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. I don't want anything." He stirred his coffee absently. "I just wanted you to know me. The real me. Not the father you imagined or the villain you needed me to be. Just the fucked-up human who made terrible choices and lost everything because of it."
"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No. It's supposed to make you feel nothing. Because I'm not worth your anger anymore, Harper. I'm not worth the space I've taken up in your head for sixteen years." He met my eyes. "I'm just a gambler who couldn't stop. Who destroyed his family because he was weak. That's all I am. That's all I ever was."
I sat back, coffee untouched. "Mom wants to know if you need money. For treatment or hospice or whatever."
"No. I'm not taking her money. I'm not taking anything from either of you." He smiled bitterly. "I'm dying in a shitty motel because that's what I earned. I made my choices. These are the consequences."
"Good. Because we don't owe you anything."
"I know."
We talked for forty minutes. Not about the past—there was nothing left to say there. About small things. My clinic. His years moving around California. The Canucks' season. Surface conversation that slowly revealed the man underneath—not a monster, not a hero. Just someone broken who'd stayed broken.
When my phone alarm went off—I'd set it for exactly one hour—I stood up.
"I should go. I have clients this afternoon."
"Will you come back? Before—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "Before it's over?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
"Maybe. I don't know. Let me think about it."
"That's fair." He stood too, wincing. "Harper? One more thing. Your mom. Is she—is she happy? Did she find someone after I left?"
"No. She spent sixteen years working herself to exhaustion raising me alone. She never dated, never remarried, never had a life beyond surviving. You took that from her."
His face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't fix anything but—"
"You're right. It doesn't fix anything." I grabbed my bag. "Goodbye, Richard."
I walked out before he could respond.
In the car, I called Crew. "It's done. I saw him. We talked. I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"No. But I will be."
That evening, I told Crew everything. The conversation, Richard's admission that he was still gambling, the fact that he was dying alone because he'd earned it.
"Are you going to see him again?" Crew asked.
"I don't think so. I got what I needed. Answers. Closure. The knowledge that leaving wasn't about me." I leaned against him. "He's just a sad man who made bad choices. I don't need to carry that anymore."
"So you're letting it go?"
"I'm trying to. It's not instant. But I think—I think I can stop wondering now. Stop making his choices mean something about my worth."
Crew kissed my forehead. "I'm proud of you. For facing him. For being braver than he ever was."
Two weeks later, I got a call from a hospital social worker.
Richard had died. Alone in his motel room. The cancer had moved faster than anyone expected.
They'd found my number in his phone listed as "emergency contact" even though I'd never agreed to be.
"We need someone to make arrangements," the social worker said. "For the body. He didn't have insurance or money for burial. If you can't—"
"I'll handle it," I heard myself say. "Send me the information."
I paid for cremation. Nothing fancy. Just the basics. Because whatever he'd been, whatever he'd done—he was still my father. And I wouldn't let him be buried in a pauper's grave.
His ashes arrived a week later in a simple urn with a note from the funeral home: No service was held per family request.
I put the urn in the back of our closet. Didn't know what else to do with it.
"You okay?" Crew asked that night.
"Yeah. I think I am. He's gone. The questions are answered. I can finally just—move on."
"That simple?"
"No. But simple enough."