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March 16, 2013 – Word Prompt: Job.

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I haven't heard from Bella since I got her letter. Granted, I'm generally the one calling her, but even after all the time and distance between us, I know she's lobbed the ball into my court and is waiting for my return volley. I sit at the small desk in my room, watching light dance in the beads of rainwater on my windowpane, Bella's letter at my elbow. It's already got that cotton-soft feel of paper that's been folded and unfolded, handled too often, and I've lost count of how many times I've read and reread it in the six days since it arrived. The stationery before me is blank, as is my mind, and when I look up, the photo my mother sent me from Emmett's wedding – the five of us together, brilliant Pacific Ocean sunset behind us – catches my eye.

I look at my parents again, my father's arm around my mother's waist, the purple fabric of her dress slightly crumpled where he's pulling her into him, and something low in my stomach aches.

. . .

My father is the one who tries next. I'm in the driveway pitching a ball against the brick side of the house and catching it in the webbed pocket of my mitt, trying to find comfort in the soothing repetition of a familiar habit.

The smack of the ball against leather.

The thud of the ball against the house.

The thump of the ball against the concrete driveway.

The chalk rectangle I've redrawn a million times looms large ahead of me, and I try with all of my focus not to see anything inside the frame but a strike zone. But the only thing that box looks like is what I feel: empty.

"How's the change-up coming along?" My father's voice surprises me, and I glance over my shoulder before shrugging.

"Okay." I don't give him the whole truth: that the pitch I thought I'd mastered – the splitter – is the one I can't seem to handle anymore. There's something about thinking you know the path of something only to have it switch at the last minute that's messing with my head.

"Want me to grab my glove and give you a real catcher?" he offers, hope evident in his blue eyes.

I shrug – not an answer either way – but he's back moments later with a worn catcher's mitt on one hand, the beat-up chest protector my mother insisted on after my first successful curveball nailed him in the ribs draped around his neck. He tips his head toward the grass, and I follow him, pacing out the distance between mound and home plate as my father squats.

"Not on call?" I ask, lobbing a few easy throws to get his palm warmed up. My father's job – and its crazy schedule – is one of the things that has significantly limited the opportunities we have to do this.

"Not today," he says simply, lobbing the ball back. After a few more cordial tosses, he cuts to the heart of it. "Your mom's worried about you."

"I know." Because I do – I can see her watching, hovering but trying not to, biting her lip against the avalanche of questions I'm sure she has.

"Want to hash it out?" He winces slightly as my first full-force fastball smacks his palm.

"Not really."

He tosses it back. "Might help."

I appreciate the offer, but the only thing that would help would be going back and undoing what I did – somehow erasing the hurt I caused Bella – and as much as I love my dad, as much as I spent years as a kid thinking he was a superhero because he could save lives, this is something that even he can't do. And yet, there's a part of me that sort of wants to at least say some of it aloud, to confess to someone who's required to love me no matter what.

I throw a few more pitches – fastball, fastball, curveball, slider – before blowing out a breath. "I let her down."

My father simply nods, catching what I throw at him: knuckleball, slider, fastball. But when I try a splitter, the ball breaks left and past my dad, bouncing down the lawn and dropping into the gutter. Without thinking, I hurl my glove after it, and my father rises from his crouch, pulling off his own glove and tucking it under his arm.

"Hey," he says with a frown, but there's no admonishment in his voice.

"Sorry." I walk to the curb and bend to retrieve my glove and the ball, but immediately my dad is beside me, hand on my shoulder.

"Sit," he orders, and, too tired to protest, I do as directed, my feet in the gutter. "Talk."

But I don't know where to start. Finally, I offer him the same non-explanation I gave my mother. "I hurt Bella, and she can't forgive me."

"Should she?"

I lift surprised eyes to him, and he's watching me carefully. I want, so badly, to be able to say yes, but honestly, I'm not sure. If I were just her friend and some other prick had done to her what I've done, would I tell her to forgive him or to cut her losses? The truth I don't want to acknowledge is obvious, and if possible, only makes me feel worse. "Probably not."

"Edward, what you have to remember is that an isolated action doesn't dictate character. Making a mistake doesn't make you a bad person. The difficult thing is living with the consequences, which is the responsibility we all have for the choices we make." I'm turning that over in my mind when he speaks again, his voice gentle. "Son, I've made a million mistakes with your mother. But she believes that, underneath my blunders, I'm a good man, and I'd do anything for her. That knowledge has let her forgive me for a lot of those mistakes."

"What was the worst one you ever made?" I challenge, knowing somehow that infidelity isn't anywhere on his list.

He regards me carefully for a moment before unlooping the chest protector from around his neck and folding his hands in front of him, elbows propped on his knees. "This doesn't leave this conversation, understood?" I nod. He blows out a breath and gazes across the street at the blank face of an empty house. "I wasn't there when Emmett was born."

"What?"

"I arrived not long afterward, but I wasn't there when he was born. I missed your mother's labor, I missed the delivery…I missed everything. I was still a resident, and the hours were hellish, and I was paying my dues. Your mother had been on me while she was pregnant that I had to figure out a way to do both – build my career and build my family – but I just…thought the family part would just be there. That I didn't have to work as hard at it. Anyway, I was in the OR on a marathon surgery and I was ignoring her pages, and by the time I scrubbed out and got the message that she was actually in labor, she'd already delivered." I've never seen my father's face look so sad. "I missed the birth of my firstborn son, and I've regretted it every single day. And it took a long time for your mother to forgive me for it."

"But she did," I say quietly, and he nods.

"She did." Finally, he turns to look at me. "Women are forgiving creatures, Edward. It's one of the things we should be most thankful for. Most of the time they want to love us, to forgive us, to let us atone for the ways we wrong them. It's one of God's true mercies."

"But aren't there some things that are unforgivable?"

His shrewd eyes are on my face, and I'm launching a concentrated effort not to squirm. "I'm afraid I'm going to need more information if you want an honest answer."

I chew on the inside of my cheek. "We were going slow," I say finally. "With the…physical stuff." I pick at the stitching on my mitt. "Slower than I would have liked." I glance up at him, expecting to see disapproval or censure, but his face is open. "But I was trying to be patient, because she's younger, and I love her, and I didn't want her to feel pressured." I tighten one of the laces along the thumb of my glove. "I was at a party she wasn't at, and a girl…sort of hit on me. And I didn't say no."

I hear my father sigh, and I feel six years old.

"Adult decisions have adult consequences, son. It's one of the most difficult lessons to learn as you approach adulthood." His voice is fatalistic, and I can hear what he doesn't say – women may be inclined to forgive, but some transgressions are unforgivable. "Edward, you and Bella have been close since you were tiny. But perhaps this happened for a reason. Perhaps you needed this to see that you were growing differently – at different speeds, and perhaps in different directions."

"But I don't want this to be it," I say, unable to hide the tremble in my voice.

"I know," my dad says, his voice gently understanding, and once again, I want to lose myself in the comforting assurance of my parents' arms. I resist, though, running a thumb over the webbed pocket of the worn leather glove in my lap, blinking furiously against the sting in my eyes. "But son, unfortunately, things in life have a way of ending before we're ready for them to. Life has a way of shoving us into the next phase, whether we're ready to move forward or not." When I don't say anything, my dad continues. "You have a scholarship offer from UIC. Is that something you'd even consider if you were still with Bella and she had another year of school left here?" I don't answer, but I don't have to – there's no way I'd willingly go to school 2,000 miles away from her if she were still mine. I know it, and so does my father. "Life doesn't always ask us what we want, Edward. Perhaps this happened because it's time for you to move forward."

"But what about Bella?"

My father's smile is sad, and I can see the answer he's too kind to say aloud: that what happens to Bella is no longer my concern.

. . .