It’s dark in here. Smells like stale beer and sweat. Like hopelessness and regret.

The only thing keeping me from turning and bolting out the door is Conner. His arm slips around my waist, more holding me up than staking any sort of claim. That’s why I allow it. Because without his support I’d be scrambling for the door.

He spots my father before I do. I know because I can feel the shoulder I’m tucked under stiffen above mine. It reminds me of the way he reacted that night. When my father shoved me back while I tried to help him during one of his drunken stupors. I can still see him standing over us. Jaw clenched. Fists ready. Chest spread wide. Gaze zeroed in on where my father lay beside me, watching him like he was waiting for him to do anything more than breathe.

And then I see him too. Slumped on a stool at the end of the bar, shoulders hunched over. Forearms braced on the edge of the bar, the only thing keeping him from pitching forward, face-first.

The years haven’t been kind to him.

“Guinness?”

I look over to find a man, nearly as large as Conner’s father polishing a glass with a dirty bar rag. He’s bald. Sharp, dark eyes. Barrel-chest. Thick arms. Hard, distended pad of fat stretched across his belly. A pro-wrestler or NFL linebacker, put out to an unsavory pasture.

Conner’s fingers dig into my hip. “Coffee.” He gives his one-word answer before pushing me forward, toward the man that used to be my father. “We can leave right now,” he whispers to me as we make our way down the length of the bar. “We don’t have to do this.”

He’s wrong.

I do have to do this.

I should’ve done it a long time ago.

He must see the resolve on my face because he lets out a long, rough breath, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. Unwinding his arm from around my waist, he reaches for my hand, uses his hold on me to pull me along behind him. When we get to the end of the bar, he stops in front of my father, holding out his arm when I try to step forward.

“Jack.” There’s something familiar about the way he says my father’s name. Something that tells me this isn’t the first time he’s gone looking for him. The first time he’s found him slumped over on a barstool, too drunk to stand.

At the sound of Conner’s voice, my father lifts and turns his head, bleary eyes finding and trying to focus on his face. “Who’s askin?”

I try to step forward again. Again, Conner stops me, his arm blocking my way. “It’s Con.” When all my father does is stare at him, the muscle in his jaw starts to twitch. “Come on, Jack—quit dickin’ around. You know who I am.”

Before I have a chance to say anything, the bartender appears with the cup of coffee Conner asked for. Instead of setting it in front of Conner, he sets it in front of my dad.

“I ain’t drinkin’ that shit,” he sneers at the bartender, pushing the cup back with shaking hands, slopping tepid brown liquid all over the bar. Sloshing it over the back of the bartender’s hands.

“That’s it, motherfu—”

Conner pulls his wallet and drops a bill on the bar. “Thanks.” He gives the bartender the sort of knowing look that says they’ve done this before and they both know what happens next. Whatever it is, it’s enough to take the wind out of the bartender’s sails.

“Whatever,” he huffs, shooting Conner a quick, nasty look before snapping the money off the bar. “Piece of shit drunk is none of my damn business anyhow,” he sneers as he stalks off down the bar, snapping his dirty towel off his shoulder to contaminate more glasses.

As soon as he’s gone, Conner reaches for the cup of rejected coffee and places it in front of my dad again. “Drink up, Jack.”

“I said I ain’t drinkin’ it,” My dad says loudly, soft jaw set at a mutinous angle. “Coffee here tastes like shit.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what it tastes like,” Conner steps into him, dropping his voice, probably in hopes that I won’t be able to hear him. “You’re gonna drink it or I’m gonna drag you out back, smack you around, and toss you in the dumpster.”

Scowling, my dad lifts the cup to his lips and takes a bracing sip. “All of it,” Conner tells him before he can set the cup down.

When my father finally puts the cup down, it’s empty. “Happy?”

“No.” Conner’s shoulders slump a bit and he drops his arm. “I have someone here who wants to see you.”

“Who are you?” my father says, his dull gaze finding me, seeing me for the first time since we walked in.

I forget that I look different. That it’s been eight years since he’s seen me. That he never looked for me. Never tried to contact me. Reach out to me.

“Hi, dad.” I step closer, surprised when Conner lets me. I can feel him behind me, poised to pull me away if things go wrong. If my dad gets belligerent. When he doesn’t do anything but stare at me, I clear my throat. “It’s me, dad. It’s Henley.”

His face changes, gets this tight, panicked look that he aims at Conner before settling on me again. When he still doesn’t say anything, I try again. “It’s Henley. Your—”

“I ain’t your dad.” He shakes his head at me, fingers wrapping around the empty cup in front of him. “You ain’t my daughter.”

“It’s me, dad.” Anxiety tightens my chest. Slicks my palms with sweat. “I know I look different but it’s me. It’s Hen—”

“You ain’t hearin’ me.” He shakes his head at me, casting a helpless look past my shoulder, at Conner. Suddenly he looks stone sober and so out of his depth, he seems to be drowning. “I know who you are, Henley Rose—but I’m not your father. I never was.”