I cannot murder my girlfriend and brother. I cannot murder my girlfriend and brother. . .
“You just gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna sit down and talk to me?”
Tension shoots through me at the sound of my father’s voice. I’m going to have to talk to him sometime, because if I know Blake and Savannah at all, then those two traitors will be gone for a while.
However, I’m still incredibly stubborn.
I remain locked in my guarded stance by the bathroom, keeping my eyes on the football game. “I have nothing to say to you. I’m just here for Blake.”
He doesn’t respond for several seconds, but I know better than to think he’s let it go. I keep my eyes on the screen as the Patriots score another touchdown. The crowd erupts in cheers, the commentators growing animated. I hear rustling to my left just before the TV’s muted and deafening silence fills the room.
“I don’t buy that for a second,” he says. “You’re too tense. You look like you got years of ‘nothing’ to get off your chest, boy.”
My jaw tightens as I look at him.
He leans his head back onto the pillows behind him, closing his eyes. “Might as well do it now while I’m still alive and kicking. Because believe me, it won’t make you feel any better to scream at a pile of dirt and a slab of stone. You’ll only wind up feeling stupid when you finally realize how many breaths you wasted shouting at a damn ghost.” His eyes open, but he just stares up at the ceiling, a slight frown marring his weary-looking face. “They can’t hear you. No matter how hard you yell, no matter how much they haunt you, they’ll never be able to hear you.”
My brows pinch as I stare at the broken man before me. I thought he’d been talking about Pops, but now it registers. And for the first time in years, I feel something other than hate for my father.
“You’re talking about Mom, aren’t you?” My voice is low, almost like I’m afraid to interrupt whatever’s going on inside his tortured mind.
Lifting his head off the pillow, he glances at me then focuses back on the silent TV. His jaw clenches as he says, “Let’s hear it. Tell me what a horrible father I was, and how much you hate me. Tell me what a worthless piece of shit I am, and how I didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as your mother, let alone marry her.”
He pauses his tirade long enough to look at me. Scoffing, he mutters, “What, you thought I didn’t know any of that? Think I haven’t been telling myself the exact same thing every day for the past fifteen goddamn years?”
I shrug. In all honesty, I tell him, “I don’t think about you or your possible regrets. I wasn’t even sure if you cared.”
I can tell my words hurt him, but I’m not going to apologize for speaking the truth.
“Of course I care. Your mother was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was the worst thing that ever happened to her. I failed her, and I failed you and Blake. Leaving was my only option—”
“What about getting sober? Or was that too much fucking work for you?”
My hands clench into fists, and I have to look away, because just seeing his goddamn face is putting me over the edge. I hate him, and I hate what he did to us, but most of all, I fucking hate that I look so much like him. I’m nothing like him.
“I was getting sober.”
My head turns to look at him.
“I left to go to rehab.” He glances down like he’s ashamed. “Your mom said she’d leave me if I didn’t.”
“Bullshit.” Someone would’ve told me if he’d gone to rehab.
“It’s true. Look at those papers sticking out of my bag,” he says, nodding to a small black duffle sitting on one of the chairs. “That’s my discharge paperwork.”
I grab the folded-up papers poking out of the side pocket and carefully read them over. “It says here your treatment program was only 90 days.” I skim them again before glancing up at him, my brows wrinkling in confusion. “You’d been gone for almost two years when Mom died.”
So where the hell had he been?
“I know. I was living in a halfway home after I got out. Even managed to get a job at a grocery store. Worked my way up from bagger to cashier,” he says with a sardonic smile.
His smile fades almost as quickly as it came on. “The plan was always to come home, Declan. I just needed help getting my shit together first, and your mom needed proof that I really quit drinking. The only way to do that was over time.”
He reaches over to the little bedside table and picks up a wallet-sized photo, his eyes lingering on it in the saddest fucking way before holding it out to me. I tentatively take it, expecting a picture of my mom or maybe one of him and my mom together.
It’s neither of those things.
There’s a tightness in my chest and a dry, uncomfortable ache in my throat as I stare down at the worn picture of a man who has one arm wrapped around the chubby-faced toddler sitting in his lap, and a swaddled newborn cradled in the other. The toddler’s pointing at the baby, looking at him doubtfully, but the man’s looking down at his newborn son with such awe and love that you just want to pat him on the back and wish him a heartfelt congratulations.
The profound sense of loss I feel over being denied the chance to meet this happy, bright-eyed version of my father is crippling.
This is the father I should have grown up with. These are the memories I should have had.
I’ve never loved or hated him more than I do right this very second.
Unshed tears prick my eyes, and I try to swallow past the painful knot in my throat as I try to hand the picture back, because I just can’t look at it anymore. It hurts too fucking much.
When he doesn’t take it, I glance up to see him shaking his head. “You should keep it.” His voice is gruff and he won’t meet my eyes, but he looks about as torn up as I feel.
I simply nod and slip the picture into my back pocket. Even though it’s a painful reminder of what could’ve been, I still want it.
He clears his throat and says, “When I was gone, I kept that picture on me at all times, to remind me of my end goal. Any time I wanted a drink, I’d pull it out and look at you guys, look at everything that was at stake, and suddenly I didn’t need that drink anymore. That picture alone did more for me than any sponsor ever could.
“But when I heard about your mom, I relapsed. I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t strong enough to fight those demons. I should’ve been. I should’ve been stronger for you and your brother.” His voice cracks as he exhales a long, shaky breath. “You needed me, and I let you down. Again.”
I watch him stare off into space, seeing the downturned corners of his mouth and the regretful gleam in his eyes. “It’s been ten years and I still haven’t found the bottom of that bottle I picked up.”
Fuuuuck me.
I was not prepared to feel this level of pain tonight. A little, sure, but this isn’t the quick yank of the Band-Aid I was expecting. This is like getting skinned alive with a dull butter knife.
As much as I hated him for leaving, and for staying away after she died, I have to admit that I get it. I do. If something ever happened to Savannah. . .well, that’s one rabbit hole I don’t think I’d ever find my way out of. How good of a father could I possibly be if I were just a shell of a man?
Millions of thoughts ping around my head as I try to wrap my mind around everything he’s just said. I’m finally able to grab one long enough to say, “I don’t understand. What the hell happened to the guy in the picture? You looked sober, and— and happy. How did he become you?”
He doesn’t look particularly offended. Just shrugs. “How does anybody become an alcoholic? It was just a series of poor decisions and a headful of issues I didn’t know how to sort through.”
“Issues with Mom?”
“With myself.” Sighing, he says, “Growing up, my dad adored my sisters. They could do no wrong in his eyes. But me? Nothing I ever did was good enough for him.
“If I got a B on a test, he’d ask why I didn’t get an A. If he came to watch me play in a baseball game, he’d make some snide comment about me spending more time on the bench than out in the field.
“It might not sound like much, but when your shortcomings are constantly thrown in your face and you lose track of how many times you’ve been told to ‘be better,’ well, it fucks you up real good.” He taps the side of his head. “It plants this little seed of insecurity that takes root in your mind, and before you know it, you’ve got a whole tree full of problems, and every branch is more twisted and gnarled than the last.
“Your mother, God rest her soul, was the only person who ever made me feel like I was enough. Like I wasn’t lacking in some way.” His lips purse as he shakes his head, muttering to himself, “’Course I had to go and show her just how wrong she was.”
I frown as I think back over my time with Pops. “That doesn’t sound like the Pops I knew. I mean, yeah, he was a hard-ass, but he wasn’t. . .” A harsh breath huffs out of my nose as I try to find the right words. “I owe every ounce of confidence I have to that man, and I am one cocky son of a bitch.”
My dad laughs. “I’m glad. He must’ve figured out his way of parenting wasn’t ideal when I turned out to be nothin’ but a drunk. Not that mine was any better,” he adds.
“Christ,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How badly have I fucked you up, huh?” He levels his gaze on me, scrutinizing me. “You drink? Do drugs? I swear to God, if you put that girl through anything like what I put your mother through. . .”
I have to laugh, because one, I treat Savannah like a queen. And two, he’s actually acting like a father right now, which is just. . .weird. “No. You don’t have anything to worry about there.”
He nods once, his eyes still narrow little slits. “What’s with all the tattoos, then? Blake said you’d gotten a few, but somebody’s gonna have to teach that boy how to count. ‘A few,’ my ass,” he mutters under his breath. Gesturing toward my face, he says, “And what’s that thing you got hangin’ off your lip? Did you not think God put enough holes in your head?”
I chuckle as I sit in Savannah’s empty chair. “You gonna tell me to get a haircut next? Or maybe to clean my room?”
He smiles and unmutes the TV. “Maybe. I got years of naggin’ to make up for.”
The game’s over, and we sit and watch the news for a few minutes before I break the silence.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
His mouth tugs to the side as he contemplates his answer. “Damage had already been done at that point. Your mom was gone, and you hated me. Blake wanted to tell you, but I told him not to. Said it wouldn’t do a lick of good to come from him, it needed to come from me.” He glances over at me. “Thank you for giving me the chance to tell my side. My conscience is. . .well, not clear, but a little lighter.” He sighs. “I love you, son, and I’m sorry for all the shit I put you through. You, Blake, your mom—you guys deserved so much better than me.”
I clear my throat, trying to get rid of that damn knot that snuck its way back in there. Fucker’s clogging everything up.
I hated him when I came in here tonight, and part of me always will. But that part’s a lot smaller now, and it’s cleared up enough room to realize love is the foundation for that hate.
Savannah was right. I hated him because I care, and I care because I love him.
He’s my dad, after all, and there were good times. There were. I just have to try a little harder to remember them, because hate has a way of coloring your memories an ugly shade.
Since I don’t know how much time he’s got left, or if I’ll ever even see him again, I simply say, “I love you too, Dad.”
He smiles like he did in the picture and wipes away an errant tear. “Now, about that wedding. . .”
It’s after two in the morning by the time we leave the hospital. My mood has taken a nosedive, but Savannah’s the only one who seems to notice. She keeps giving me these concerned sidelong glances and I’ve ignored them all.
I might be in a shitty mood, but I didn’t want to be the turd in tonight’s punch bowl. So I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the night and tried to act like everything was a-fucking-okay. But it’s not.
Blake pulls out a cigarette and sticks it between his lips, despite all the non-smoking signs in the ambulance bay. “That wasn’t so bad, huh?”
He talks around the cigarette, and every time it moves with his lips, I want to yank it out and shove it up his nose.
With a flick of his thumb, an orange flame erupts from his lighter. He holds it up to his cigarette, cocooning it with his free hand, and sucks in a deep breath. “At least you guys didn’t kill each other or anything,” he says on a long exhale.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Blake’s eyes meet mine, and for a second, it looks like he’s going to pretend not to know what I’m talking about. Then he shakes his head and looks down as he puts his lighter back in his pocket. “Look, man, he didn’t want it to come from me.”
“So?” My voice rises as I take a step toward him. “God, I cannot believe you. Do you have any idea how much time we lost because of some bullshit lie? I’m never gonna get that time back, and you—of all fucking people—should’ve told me.”
Savannah steps in front of me and plants her hands on my chest. “Let’s take this to the parking lot before they call security, okay?”
Blake scowls and takes another drag, lowering his voice to mutter, “Don’t try to put this all on me, asshole. I’ve been trying to get you to talk to him for almost two goddamn years, but your stubborn ass wouldn’t listen. It’s your fault you missed out on that time with him, not mine.”
He tries to step past me, but I grab his arm. His eyes cut to mine in a glare, and I return it tenfold. “You should’ve fucking told me.”
“What good would it’ve done?” he asks bitterly, shrugging out of my grip. “You never would’ve believed me.”
I want to say that’s bullshit, but I can’t. I probably wouldn’t have believed him. So, I say what I always do when I don’t want to admit that he’s right and I’m wrong. “Fuck you.”
“Yeah, fuck you, too.” Blake steps around me, flicking his cigarette to the ground as he walks off.
I watch him disappear into the parking lot before taking off toward my car. Savannah appears by my side a second later, but I don’t acknowledge her.
It’s a shitty thing to do, I know, but I’m in a fuck-or-break-something kind of mood, and the last thing I want is Savannah in the middle of my pissed-off path. I don’t have it in me to be gentle with her right now, and as much as she claims to like it rough, I refuse to take that chance. Especially since the last time I fucked her good and hard, it ended with her in tears and me loathing myself.
“What the hell was that about?” She tries to stop me by tugging on my arm, but I keep walking.
My fists itch with the need to hit something, and my jaw hurts from clenching so hard. We reach my car seconds later, and across the roof I bite out, “My dad didn’t walk out on us. He left to go to rehab. And Blake’s lying ass fucking knew it.”