Page 87 of Moving Forward

I blinked. Grams never wanted me to know what he was really like. When he came into town, I was always conveniently somewhere else. “Oh, your father was just here,” she’d say when I would come home after spending the night at Conner’s house. It wasn’t until Grandpa caught me sneaking whiskey into my bedroom that he sat me down and told me the hard truth. He said my dad was an addict, and if I didn’t watch myself, I’d follow him down that path.

Given how much I’d drunk over those past few days, he might be a prophet.

“You didn’t even come to the funeral,” I pointed out.

“You think he would have wanted me there? He disowned me because of you. Said if I wouldn’t be a father to you, he wouldn’t be father to me.” Another hit caused the register to open. “Hell yeah!” he hollered, and began stuffing his pockets with cash.

He got lucky. Grams was usually better about putting the money in the bank, but she’d been preoccupied with running the diner on her own since Grandpa died.

“I won’t let you leave here with that, you know?”

He ignored me.

I decided to ask the question I’d always wanted to know the answer to. Who knew if I’d ever have another chance? “Did you ever care about me? About Mom?”

This time he looked at me and his eyes were so empty I already knew the answer before it left his lips. “No.” He finished stuffing the money in his pockets. “I was in a band, we were going to hit it big, but then your mother told me she was knocked up. That was the minute I knew it was all over. The minute I chose this fucking life.”

I knew he was talking about the drugs. He was wrong. He didn’t have to choose drugs. There were so many paths he could have taken instead. He didn’t have to give up on his dreams because my mom was pregnant. He could have stayed with us and pursued his music, or he could have walked away from the beginning. He was delusional.

He stopped when he reached my side. He looked just like me. I might as well have been him at that point. Someday, I would wake up and blame all my mistakes on everyone but myself—on people who love me . . .

“You’re better off without those fuckers.”

He started walking away, but some cash fell out of his hoodie pocket. In the distance, I could hear the faint sound of sirens. I should have just let the idiot get himself caught, but I was so fucking furious I didn’t even realize I’d raced back to the register and grabbed the hammer.

Better off without those fuckers? Without the people who loved me?

He was on all fours, grabbing the money he’d dropped, but more kept falling out of his pocket. He was so busy cursing and grumbling that he didn’t realize what I was about to do.

“I don’t remember hitting him,” I admit after telling Max the story. “The next thing I knew, his face was a bloody mess, and he was telling me I’m worthless.” You’re worthless. “That I was just like him.” I’m glad I’m not looking at her right now because I’m pretty sure I’d cry if I was. “I’ve heard his words at least once a day in my head ever since.”

Max is quiet for a long time before she finally asks, “Is he . . . did you . . .”

“He was in the hospital for a long time. I thought I killed him . . . killed my own father. And then to go and do what I did Ethan—I was just out of control. I wanted it all to be over. Like I said, I wanted Ethan to kill me. I deserved it.”

“No—”

I cut her off. “Dad survived. We haven’t heard from him since. I should have gone to jail, but Grams somehow managed to convince the cops it was self-defense. I don’t know how she can still look me in the eye after what I did. I don’t know how you will.”

Max reaches up and turns my face toward hers. “This is how I will,” she says gently and proceeds to meet my eyes with the kindest, gentlest expression anyone has ever gifted me with. “Your father sounds like a horrible man. What you did was wrong, but your emotions were heightened, and he said all the right things to antagonize you.” She brushes her lips against mine. “He was wrong. You are not worthless.” I taste tears and pull away to find that she’s crying. I wipe her cheeks with the pads of my thumbs. “If you ever think that, let me know and I’ll argue with you until I’m blue in the face.”

“What if I had killed him? What if I’d killed Ethan?”

“You didn’t.”

“But . . .”

She places her fingers over my mouth, quieting me. “I don’t believe you would have.”

I need to say one final what if. It comes out as a whisper. “What if I’m a violent man?”

More tears rain down her cheeks. “You aren’t. Those incidents don’t define you. The way you’ve been with me these past few weeks proves to me that you are a good man.” She pauses and gives me a wide-eyed, encouraging look. “But I do think you need to talk to someone. You need to learn how to deal with your emotions.” Her fingers dance over the scars on my forearm. “Without hurting yourself.”

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Max has been acting strange for the last hour. I keep feeling her eyes on me, but every time I glance over at her, she looks away just as quickly, making some sort of nervous movement, like tucking her hair behind her ears. While I work on getting the boat cleaned up she keeps drawing close to me, invading my space. Her hand might almost touch me or her mouth might open, then she’ll retreat, as far away from me as possible. All the while her hands shake and keeps fidgeting.

She blinks several times when I catch her cornering me while I’m cleaning up the tools I’d used this afternoon. “Peaches, something bothering you?”

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