Page 114 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"It was a head-on collision, and Arlo walked away without a scratch on him."

"What happened to the other driver?" Lou asks.

"That's the problem," Chick Parkinson says. "Arlo wasn't the one drivin'. His daughter picked him up from the bar because the bartender took his keys."

My hands fly to my mouth.

Chick Parkinson nods. "The man she hit was paralyzed."

"Poor Danny," Chick Allen says.

"His wife left him after a few years. He's a good man with good sons, though. They take care of him," Chick Parkinson says.

Lou looks physically pained.

"I don't get it," I whisper. "I heard Arlo got court-mandated rehab."

"He did," Chick P. says. "His daughter was fifteen and didn't have her license yet. So he wasn't fit to supervise. Arlo told the police it wasn’t his fault, that he was throwin’ up and she got distracted and drifted into the other lane."

A cry bubbles from my lips, and the Chicks all nod.

"He was charged with somethin'-or-other and got rehab and community service.”

"What happened the day of the funeral?" I ask. My stomach clenches, knowing it won't be good.

"Arlo didn't go," Chick Hanks says. "Rusty stood by his mother and held her while she sobbed in the church and at the graveside service, as if the poor boy hadn't already been holding her up his whole life."

"Where was Arlo?" I ask.

"At Donegal's Bar. The bar of the man he paralyzed."

I'm horrified on so many levels, I don't know where to start. Donegal's? Patty and Sean own Donegal's. Are they the sons who take care of their paralyzed father? A soul-sick feeling overtakes me thinking of Arlo getting drunk instead of being there for the funeral he caused, whether he was driving or not.

A part of me wants to pity him, wants to understand him and his perspective—his father was a mean drunk! His daughter was killed in an accident picking him up! His survivor's guilt must have been intense, right? And he was an alcoholic. His addiction drove his choices.

But I can't absolve him. Nothing I've heard makes me think he deserves it. He never wanted this outcome, but this is the violent bully who called his son stupid, who yelled that his wife "entrapped" him. This is the hateful monster who refuses to take responsibility for his own actions even after a decade plus of being sober. This is the demon who torments his own son.

"He was at the bar of the man he paralyzed instead of at his daughter’s funeral," Lou says, shaking her head. "Unbelievable."

"That ain't all," Chick P. says. He looks at his friends. "After the funeral, Rusty got a call from Donegal's that they refused to serve Arlo and someone needed to pick him up."

"If they refused to serve him, why didn't they just make him drive home?"

"He was already drunk from wherever he'd been before. But he went right into the bar and sat on a stool. The bartender took his keys and called Rusty."

Another sob escapes my throat. "That is so cruel."

"My son worked tables there at the time," Chick P. says. "Rusty marched into the bar. He was stone-faced, wearing the suit he'd worn to the service."

"Only seventeen," Chick Allen says, shaking his head.

"He grabbed Arlo to drag him out, and Arlo spit on him, ranting about their siren mother," Chick P. says. "Rusty tried to pull him to his feet, and Arlo pushed him. He grabbed his son's collar and told him, 'You think you can escape this? Wait till you get saddled with a pair of brats you don't want, and see how you handle it.' That's when Rusty snapped. Punched Arlo right in the face, yellin’ that his sister wasn’t a brat, that it was all Arlo’s fault. He kept punching till Arlo was a useless heap on the ground, face bloodied and broken. When Rusty realized what he was doing, he stumbled back. Everyone said he looked like he was in shock. But Arlo started laughing, saying, 'you're just like me, boy.' And Rusty didn't say a word. He’d gashed his own hand open on Arlo’s face, and he ran outside and threw up. The bartender called an officer to take Arlo home, and my son called ol' Tag Carville to get Rusty. Tag came right away and took Rusty to get his hand patched up at the hospital."

Tears stream down my face. I clutch my hand over my heart. This is what Arlo was talking about? A teenage boy on the worst day of his life snapping and finally stopping his abuser?

I remember the puckered skin over his knuckles I've touched a hundred times over the last almost two weeks. I think of the way he touches it himself when he drifts off into his head to a place I haven't been able to pinpoint before now.

It's more than guilt or unworthiness. It's him fearing becoming like his dad.

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