Okay (18 page)

My father's somber expression confirms it, and he nods once, never breaking eye contact.

It's then that I notice the manila file folders on his desk. I reach for them.

"Let me see them."

But his palm slams down on top of them, and I raise my eyebrows, somewhat taken aback.

"That's not a good idea, son."

I nearly recoil at the moniker. The last mouth I heard it come out of belonged to a man I hate even more than the one sitting across from me, a father even worse than my own—Rory's. The recollection stops me long enough for my father to slide the files from my reach.

He shakes his head. "Look, Sam. You obviously care about this girl. And trust me, you don't want to see someone you care about all cut up and bruised. You can't un-see images like that," he advises with an empathy I would almost believe if I didn't know better.

"I suppose you would know, wouldn't you?" The biting retort flies from my lips before I can even consider their consequences, and I silently chastise myself for it. I have to stay focused on my goal, despite what deals I have to make with which devils to do it. As long as they keep Rory safe from
her
devil, I'll do fucking
anything
.

My father licks his bottom lip, and I know he wants to say something more than what he's about to say. This is the good version of him. The one in control of his emotions. The one not abraded by alcohol and triggered by nothing. "I deserve that," he murmurs, his voice low but steady.

Again, it's not what I was expecting, and it silences me for a moment.

"Do you love this girl, Sammy?" he asks softly.

I blink at him, thinking, calculating, considering what answer is most likely to both end this line of questioning and get him to do what I ask of him.

"Not everyone is naïve enough to think they're in love in high school," is my vague response. I don't bother telling him that I'm not included in that enlightened group, because the truthful answer to my father's question would be a simple,
yes
.

It's the first time since I got here that I see a flash of indignation on my father's face, but it's hidden behind his careful mask of patience in the merest of seconds.

"You can say what you want about me and how I treated your mother, and you guys, too. But I fell in love with your mother my junior year of high school and I've loved her every day since. I wasn't naïve to think I loved her, I was naïve to think I
deserved
her. I didn't." He sighs again and takes a deep breath, cutting off his rambling.

But the resigned look that follows tells me that he's making a choice, and I suspect that instead of shutting down the subject, he's going to elaborate. I remain silent, in a cautious state of astonishment. In the many possibilities I imagined for this meeting, both productive and disastrous, I never so much as considered this particular direction.

"I had a problem with alcohol by the time I graduated law school. But there are different kinds of alcoholics, Sammy… I was functional. I didn't drink all the time. And I was successful. The youngest attorney to make partner in the firm's history."

I've heard him tout that honor a thousand times, but always with an arrogance that is conspicuously absent now. Now he says it with regret, and the distinction holds my undivided attention.

"Your mother knew I had a problem. She's always known me better than anyone, since she was sixteen years old. But her pointing it out, asking me to stop drinking, it only made me angry and deny it.

"You see, I had an idea of what an alcoholic was, and it wasn't me. It wasn't success and esteem. And the worse things got when I did drink, it just became easier and easier to make excuses to myself."

He takes another deep breath, and pushes his hand through his still-full head of chestnut hair, another habit we share. I watch my father, unblinking, riveted by the shadow of another version of him—one I almost forgot existed, one completely lost behind far more potent memories. The version that would appear for brief periods following one of his episodes. The one full of contrition and remorse, apologies and promises he would so easily forget the next time he had one too many.

His shame over his behavior lasted the number of days it took for the bruises to fade, or in one case, my sling to come off, and not a moment longer. But now, it's been five years, and the adamancy of his regret shines sharper than I've ever seen before, even in his most pitiful moments.

He looks back down at his desk and his voice grows softer. "I never stopped loving Lainey. Not for a single moment." I hear his swallow. "Or you either, Samuel. Or Beth."

I look away, daunted by this whole confession of his. I had emotionally prepared myself for quite a bit, considering the nature of what this meeting was
supposed
to be about, but this… I expected him to die of old age or liver failure before ever uttering these words.

I allow my eyes to skate around his office for the first time since I arrived. Aside from a few knick-knacks and the updated guest furniture, nothing has changed. My gaze lands back on my father's desk, zeroing in on the three framed photos. I think I stop breathing. There's a photo of the four of us from when I was about eleven or so, including my mother mid-laugh, my father's eyes trained adoringly on her instead of looking at the camera.

Then there's one of Bits from her dance recital when she was twelve. That was only a few years ago—at least a year after he left.

And then there's the largest of the frames, housing my senior portrait, and tucked in the bottom right corner is a wallet size of my football portrait, also from this year. My father follows my gaze and picks up the frame, taking a moment to look wistfully at my image. It confuses me even more.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe for him to completely wipe away any evidence of our existence—any reminders of his one failure. To tell everyone he initiated the divorce, and good riddance. Not to keep a happy-family photo and updated portraits of Bits and me on his desk.

"I asked your mother for them," he explains.

I glare at him in confusion. I don't know if I'm more perplexed by his saying he loves me, or the fact that he has my photos on his desk, or that he's in amicable enough contact with my mother to have obtained them from her. I feel as if I've been flung into some alternate universe, and I wish I had some sense that I was being manipulated, because that would make a hell of a lot more sense than his apparent sincerity.

"I kicked you out of your own fucking house," I remind him. "I almost reported you, got you arrested. I could have ruined your life. I was ready to do it, too." I need him to remember what I remember. To see things how I've seen them for as long as I
can
remember. That he chose alcohol over us, traumatized us for life in the process, and that I betrayed him in return, threatening what he valued most—his career.

My father only nods, taking me from confused to completely lost.

"I remember, Sammy. I was drunk, but I remember it very clearly, I assure you." But his tone isn't accusatory, it's… almost admiring.

My brow furrows and my mouth gapes open.

"It was my rock bottom, that night," he whispers. "I'd gone pretty low before, which you know. But that night… Lainey's face…" His voice cracks and he stops to regain his composure.

"That night, Sammy, you became more of a man that I'd ever been—
could
ever be. You protected your family. You stood up and did what you had to do. And… and I admit I didn't see it immediately—and I realize the irony here—but that was my proudest moment as a father.

"I left because you gave me no other choice. You took away my excuses and any other options. And as a result, I did the only thing I could—I got sober. I stayed away because I didn't deserve my family, I knew that. I
know
it. But I took comfort in knowing my girls had a real man to look after them. So no, son, I'm not angry with you for standing up to me, I couldn't be more grateful. I owe you everything."

I exhale my disbelief and blink away from him. It's just too much to fucking absorb. But then my gaze lands on the coin dangling from a thin ball chain, hung proudly over the top right corner of his prided framed diploma from Columbia Law School. The Roman numeral V in the center confirms his story. Five years sober. And I'm knocked even further off balance.

"You stopped drinking?" I barely recognize my own voice, timid and unsure, like the child I never really got to be.

But before he can even give the confirmation I already know to be true, I shake my head, remembering myself. Because what the fuck does it matter that he's sober
now?
It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't undo the injuries or the trauma, both emotional and physical, nor does it make him the dad I deserved, when I actually needed one. But that kid is gone, and this man in front of me, drunk or sober, recovering alcoholic or alcoholic abusive bastard, is nothing more to me than a stranger at best.

He sighs, as if he senses me returning to my senses, breaking out of his spell of remorse, sobriety, and supposed pride for me, and back into reality.

"Listen, Sam, I wasn't expecting your forgiveness—"

"Good, because you're not getting it."

My father nods to himself in acceptance. "I suppose I've always known that. Which is why I haven't contacted you. In case you thought it was because I didn't care, or that I didn't love you. It's—"

Christ
. "It doesn't matter, either way." My tone contains a subtle warning. I'm reaching my limits of listening to him profess his love and concern. True or not, it's total bullshit. Far too little, far too late.

He nods again. "I just wanted you to understand where I'm coming from. I know I've hurt you beyond the scope of the forgivable. But you came to me, Sam. And I was just looking out for your interests. When I asked you how well you knew the Pine girl, I was just trying to make sure—"

"Her interests
are
my interests," I say sharply, my voice rising more than I'd meant it to, and I take a moment to calm myself before I continue.

I sit forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my thighs, needing him to know just how serious I am. "Look, Mitch, you can help me, like you said you would, or I can figure something else out. But I'm going to protect Rory, no matter
what
I have to do. So you can either help make sure
that motherfucking bastard
gets real jail time, or you can get ready to prepare my murder defense,
Dad
."

He watches me carefully, and his grim expression tells me he knows I mean every single fucking word.

We stare at each other for long, sober moments, until my father's eyes crinkle at the corners. He holds his lips straight, but his eyes fail to veil their amusement.

"Too wise for love in high school, eh?"

My gaze drops to my lap. "We're just friends," I mutter pathetically.

"Bullshit."

I don't bother denying it. Because we may just be friends, but my father is right, it is fucking bullshit.

I rub my face with my palms, and then rake them through my hair, one after the other. All my confidence and anger drains out of me, replaced with frustration and desperation, and I drop my head into my hands.

"Tell me how to help her," I plead.

My father stands, and I don't bother looking up as he makes his way around his desk and tentatively places his hand on my shoulder. I don't even flinch.

"Sammy," he says, and squats down to my eye level, waiting until I meet his gaze.

I look at him with a childlike helplessness that I despise with every cell in my body. It's a desperate vulnerability that I need fucking resolved. I need Rory's demons either locked up or slain, not just for her, but for
me
. Because I can fool myself into believing I'll someday be able to get over her, but I know I'll never have even a shadow of peace of mind until I can be sure that she's safe.

"I promise you, we will help your
friend.
I will do everything in my
significant
political and legal power to
bury
her piece of garbage rapist," he says adamantly, and I believe him. "And I know how difficult this is for you, but I need you to trust me. You need to be patient and listen to what I tell you, and most importantly… don't do anything fucking stupid, Sammy, you hear me? If that girl cares half as much about you as you obviously do her, she needs you to be cool-headed and calm. The last thing she needs is you doing something reckless, son. You get yourself locked up, and where does that leave her?"   

Exactly where she fucking is, just with one less
friend
who doesn't even talk to her anymore
.

But I don't say it out loud. It would do no good. Because she may not know that I'm still looking out for her, but I do, and so my father is right—I'm more good to Rory if I do things his way, as much as I know how much more gratifying meting out violence for violence would be.

Because I sure as hell can't say that I didn't enjoy the punishment I doled out in that goddamned alley. The only part that dulled the satisfaction was the knowledge that I would have to stop. That I couldn't just finish it there. The cops were on their way, and there were too many people around. But I won't pretend I haven't considered doing it the right way. Planning, calculating… and executing. Literally.