“THAT’S THE LAST FUCKING time.” This is the one and only time I’m grateful Tucker can’t hear what I’m saying.

My father leans back in his ripped La-Z-boy, running one callused hand over the faded arm and his other along his salt-and-pepper five o’clock shadow.

“You don’t scare me, boy,” he says with a leer on his wrinkled face. “The hell you thinking? Come in here, into my house, talking to me like you’ve got some balls on you.”

The stench of cheap whiskey permeates the stale air as he slurs his words. Of course the old bastard is drunk. He probably won’t remember a damn thing I said come tomorrow, but it’s not going to keep me from saying what I came inside to say.

“I’m hiring an attorney tomorrow,” I say. I’ve been saving for months for a good one, someone experienced in this sort of thing. You can’t simply tell the state that you think a child isn’t being properly cared for and then the state gives that child to you. It doesn’t work that way. There are processes and investigations and proper channels. There are protocols and court hearings and psychological evaluations.

None of this will happen overnight and it’s going to cost me my life savings if this dipshit fights it (which he will), but if I can finally get my brother out of this shithole, it’ll be worth it.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” I say through clenched teeth. “A joke of a father. Tucker deserves better than that.”

“Guess it would hurt you to remember the good times, eh?” he asks with a sick chuckle as he rubs his belly.

“Good times? What good times?” My voice booms, fists clenching. It takes all the self-restraint I have not to get in his face. “You mean before Mom left?”

He doesn’t answer, only nods.

“I don’t have a single good memory of you. You know who taught me how to swing a bat? Grandpa. You know who taught me how to change a tire? Joe Collins down the road. You know how I learned to—”

“—enough, enough.” He lifts a hand before swatting it toward me, batting my words away because he doesn’t want to hear them.

The truth hurts.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to rehash the past,” I say. “That shit’s dead and buried. Just wanted to give you a chance to be a man. Let Tucker live with me. Don’t put him through this messy custody shit. Because it will get messy. And it will get expensive. And I will win.”

“Get the fuck outta here.” He leans to the side in his chair as if I’m blocking his view, eyes straining on the screen.

My jaw tightens. “If you so much as attempt to retaliate on Tucker for any of this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

And I mean it.

I head down the hall, the floorboards sinking and creaking with each step, and I stop outside Tuck’s door, gathering myself so he doesn’t have to see me like this.

I take three deep breaths, close my eyes, and paint a smile on my face before going in.

“I’m taking off,” I sign.

He pauses his video game and sits the controller down, and I take a seat beside him on the bed.

Ruffling his hair, I give him a smile, a silent reassurance that everything’s going to be fine. And it will be if only because I’ll spend every last dime, every waking hour, my last damn breath if I have to … making sure of it.

“Goodbye,” Tucker signs. His eyes contradict the smile on his face.

I wish I could stay.

I wish I could take him back home.

Someday, buddy. Someday.

Heading out to my truck, I start the engine and back out, letting the gravel pop beneath my tires. It hits me when I’m halfway home, that I’ve got this swell in my chest, this light sensation in my middle.

Am I … am I excited? To go home?

I refuse to believe it.

And yet—I can’t deny it.

Last night, I had every intention of having my way with her. Figured we could both use a release after everything that had happened that night, but Tuck came downstairs and I ended up talking to him at the kitchen table while he ate like a kid who hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.

By the time he went to bed and I got upstairs, she was already passed out in my bed.

I crawled in beside her.

I don’t remember the rest.

I remember waking up to pancakes, waking up and looking at her prancing around my kitchen like we were some makeshift, happy little family.

For the first time in years, as I stood there watching her, I let myself feel a little bit of something … and it wasn’t so bad, but then I thought, “Holy hell, I must be out of my goddamn mind.”

Veering onto my exit, I calculate another fifty minutes until I get home.

Until I get to see her.