A bunch of stuff happens while I'm in the hospital, most of which I learn about through my dad, who refuses to leave my side despite the fact that I'm more-or-less fine, and sleeping in a chair is hell on his back.

Even confronted with the damning evidence on the recording, Dylan hadn't gone down without a fight. He'd tried to claim that both voices were mine, painting himself as some sort of tragic Gilbert Grape character stuck taking care of his ailing father and his deranged little brother.

Luckily, his story had not held up to scrutiny. For one thing, the time stamp on the recording showed it had been made just moments before, and everyone had witnessed him take that call, then ask to speak with me alone.

Occam's razor, and all that.

The wedding is canceled, of course. As the fault lies with our side, Belle's family would have been within their rights to demand reparations of some sort—a shit-ton of money has already been spent, after all—but they don't.

They're good people. They know we don't have the means, and they understand that, while she might be heart-broken now, Belle has been saved from a lot of future pain.

Dylan was arrested at the house for assault. Maybe he didn't push me, but it could easily be argued that he made me fall, and that he meant to do it. In other circumstances, the charges might not have stuck—it was basically an accident, after all—but it turns out my tip had made its way to the right ears.

The FBI had been after Neil for a long time, and Dylan was just what they'd been waiting for. Like the typical bully, he'd cried as soon as the tables were turned, and made a plea deal—testify against Neil in exchange for immunity. While I'd been right—he'd been plenty deep in the shit himself—he was small fry compared to Neil.

As for me—like I said, I'm okay. I broke my arm and my wrist, sprained a leg, and had to wear a neck-brace for a few days, but otherwise, I'm fine. I'm more worried about my dad, to be honest. He's taken it hard, and we both have hurts that go a lot deeper than bruises and broken bones.

"Why didn't you tell me, Felix?" he asks once he fully understands. "Why didn't you come to me the very first time?"

I'd rather stare at the ugly picture on the hospital room wall than meet his eyes, but I do anyway, blinking against unwanted tears.

I don't have a good answer. Kid logic doesn't always make sense, and neither does adult logic, to be honest.

"A mix of dumb reasons," I admit. "I thought I could handle it myself, and I guess I believed Dylan's lies—that I deserved it, that no one would believe me anyway. After a while, I was just ashamed, and I didn't want to cause you trouble. You had so much to deal with—working full time, raising two kids. You were always so tired when you got home. Then you got sick, and...it seemed like there were more important things."

I'd only seen my dad cry once before, but he cries at that.

"Felix, nothing was more important to me than you boys. I wish to hell you'd told me," he shakes his head, "for your own sake, and for Dylan's too. Maybe if I'd known and put a stop to it, things would be different now. Maybe..."

"I'm sorry," I say, struck by new guilt.

He hears it and rubs his hand over mine. "Hey, no. It's not your fault. None of it's your fault, okay? If it's anyone's fault besides Dylan's, it's mine. I should've paid better attention. I should've noticed something wasn't right."

"You were busy," I say. "You did your best."

He shakes his head. "If I did, then my best wasn't good enough." He looks at me and I see a lot of worry in his eyes—more than is warranted by a cast and a few bruises—and I guess I must look pretty pitiable—but when he speaks I realize my physical injuries aren't the main cause of his concern.

"When you're better, I want you to talk to someone, okay?" he says. "Me too. We can go together if you want."

"Dad, no. I'm—"

"No, you're not fine," he says with more firmness than I've heard from him in a long time. "I'm not fine either. And that's okay, Felix. It's okay not to be fine."

He has to speak slowly, with pauses for breath, and I realize he has some perspective.

"Okay," I agree.

"Good," he smiles. "We might not be fine now, but we will be, Felix. We'll be okay, you and me."

He pats my hand, and something in his expression reminds me of another pain I've been keeping at the back of my mind.

I haven't allowed myself to think about Isaac since the paramedics loaded me into an ambulance and took me away. Dad told me the Masons had all returned home, but part of me had hoped that maybe one of them stayed behind. It's been two days, though, and I've only had one visitor.

It hurts, but my dad is right: it's just him and me.

"Yeah," I say, "we will."

#

I'm released from the hospital the following day, and Dad and I take turns driving my old Subaru back home. We wind our way up the west side of the lake, enjoying a last view of the serene expanse of blue water and cool, pine-fresh mountain air, then take I-80 over the mountain pass and into the sweltering summer heat of the valley below, finally arriving in the more temperate coastal region in the late afternoon.

We're both exhausted, and don't say much, but Dad gives me a long hug before he goes to bed.

"You're loved, Felix," he tells me. "Don't forget that."

"You, too, Dad," I return.

Things gradually return to normal over the following weeks, until the whole affair of Dylan's almost-wedding, the house on the lake, and my short-lived shot at romance begin to seem almost like a dream.

Only the cast on my arm and my new therapist remind me otherwise.

As it turns out, I am fine, after all. Mostly.

I have scars, of course, but it's not like I'm broken. I know myself, and I'm okay with who I am; and despite his best efforts, who I am has little to do with Dylan's fuckery.

I miss Isaac, but except for at night, when I dream of his easy smile, his sun-browned skin, and his gentle touches, I succeed pretty well at keeping my mind on other things.

Obviously, I can't play the piano very well with one arm in a cast, and I'm going to have a hell of a time rebuilding the muscle strength in my left hand once the cast comes off, but I can still teach and compose, and I throw myself into those pursuits with new vigor.

Strangely enough, it's one of Dylan's friends—ex-friends, I should say—who offers me my first small break.

I'd pegged all Dylan's friends as jerks, but it seems I was wrong.

He says he'd heard me play at the lake house, and liked my style. He's making a documentary about the Japanese-American community in San Francisco during WWII, and he asks if I'll compose the score. It's not a big project, not a lot of money, but it's something.

After watching some of the footage he's gathered and put together so far, I readily agree.

When I'm not teaching or working on the score, I go to the beach and watch the surfers play the waves.

Their strong, lean bodies riding the crushing power of the sea, the pure joy in their free, wild sport, is a kind of poetry I've come to enjoy.

Sometimes I watch until the sun goes down. Sometimes after.

#

"Why don't you call him?" my Dad asks one morning when he catches me staring into space over a cup of coffee that's long since gone cold.

"Who?"

"Isaac, of course. Who else?" he says, adjusting the clear plastic tubing that loops over his ears. His breathing has gotten a little worse lately with the summer smog, and the oxygen tank has become a permanent fixture.

I sigh. We've had this conversation before, and I'm not excited to have it again.

"You know I can't."

"Why not? Just because you called one time and he didn't pick up or call you back doesn't mean he never wants to talk to you again. I mean, it might, but then again, maybe he's just busy, or still working through his feelings. If I'd given up after the first time your mother refused to take my calls, you wouldn't exist."

He pauses to laugh and take a few breaths.

"You won't know unless you try," he goes on, "and you'll regret it if you don't."

I let out a long breath. He's been beating me down on this point for the last two days, and I have to admit defeat. "Fine. I'll call him—just one more time. Whatever happens, after this you let it drop, okay?"

He nods. "I just don't want to see you pass up a chance to be happy, Felix. I know you're happy here with me," he adds quickly, "and I know there are 'other fish in the sea,' and all that, but... The way he looked at you, and the way you lit up around him... That's something that doesn't happen every day."

I swallow the lump threatening to close off my throat, and nod back. "Okay. One more try."

That night, I sit on my bed, phone in hand, and work up the nerve to call.

I know I could send a text, like a normal person, but after what happened I feel like a real call is the only way to go. Words are too ambiguous on their own, and I want to hear his voice.

Finally, I press the green icon and wait.

It rings and rings, and then a generic, computerized female voice tells me the number is not available and to leave a message after the tone.

I miss my cue.

The tone comes and goes, and I sit in silence like a creep, listening to myself say nothing, feeling like an astronaut cut adrift in space.

Finally, I whisper two words before I disconnect.

"Isaac. Goodbye."