He sounded genuinely apologetic, too. Like he had finally come to terms with the reality of his situation. Like he was apologizing for everything.

But Wynonna was having none of that.

“Like fuck it isn’t,” she said. “Give me one good reason why I should go to Switzerland with you. Just one.”

Roscoe’s eyes were distant. Like the only way he knew how to handle the situation was to remove himself from it. To go to some faraway place where death was just a phase, hate didn’t exist, and he wasn’t responsible for losing everything precious to him in a single instant.

He said nothing. What could he say?

“Give me one reason why I should forgive you,” said Wynonna. “Just one. Fucking. Reason.”

Roscoe shrugged his shoulders, looking too broken for words.

“No.” Wynonna shook her head fiercely. “Don’t you dare shrug your shoulders at me. I asked you a question—”

“I don’t have a reason for you,” he said, finally. “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

Wynonna exploded. “Then what the fuck do you want from me? What exactly were you expecting to get out of this? That I have some biological obligation to accept you as my dad? Because I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a dad. You’re nothing to me. You’re just the motherfucker who killed my mom. You want my forgiveness? Then give me my mom back, you drunk piece of shit.”

Roscoe’s eyes were wet, glossed over with sadness. But he didn’t blink. He took every word like it was a punch he deserved.

By the end of it all, he nodded. Accepting.

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t deserve my own forgiveness, let alone yours. All I can tell you is that I’m sorry. That there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for what happened. I wish I could somehow make it up to you. But truth is, I can’t. I can’t ever give back what I took from you. Or Carol. Your mother was irreplaceable. She was too good for this world, and she was certainly too good for me.”

A tear trickled down his cheek. Disappeared into the foliage of his beard.

“I never expected you to forgive me,” he said. “I just thought I got lucky.”

I had been so lost in Roscoe’s apology, I hadn’t even thought to look at Wynonna.

Her face was red. Her eyes were slits, compressed with emotion. She was shaking.

“Yeah?” she said, finally. “Well, you thought wrong.”

She stormed off. Across the building hallway, down the stairwell, out of sight.

I glanced hopelessly between the two of them. For the briefest moment, Roscoe and I made forlorn eye contact. There was even a flicker there—somewhere, deep down—that seemed to recognize me.