Molly continued to sob as if her heart had been split open.
He wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I left shortly after that.”
“Left? Where’d you go?”
“Everywhere. And nowhere. I was dead inside. I changed the way I looked—shaved my head, started getting tats—so I wouldn’t be reminded of him every time I looked in the mirror.” He’d obliterated the image of who he’d been so completely that it pained him to admit he couldn’t remember what he—they—used to look like. Dante had been a disembodied voice in his head for so long, not a physical presence, that was how Deacon remembered him.
“But you were fifteen,” Molly said. “How did you support yourself?”
“I turned sixteen two weeks before I left. I’d taken a couple hundred dollars out of my bank account before I took off. I washed dishes or worked as a janitor for cash under the table. Menial-labor jobs ensured I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone. I moved around a lot. I had no interest in anything—sex, women, booze, or drugs. The only thing I cared about was bulking up so when I turned eighteen I could start fighting. I found a sketchy dojo that offered to train me in jujitsu. The underground fight scene is illegal, so I had to keep traveling farther away to find decent opponents.”
“How long did you stay away from home?”
“Almost five years.”
“Did your family look for you?”
“At the time I didn’t care. I legally changed my name a week after I turned eighteen.”
“Why did you ever go back?”
He rested his chin on top of her head and closed his eyes. “I heard that my dad had a heart attack. By the time I’d found out—I don’t remember how that crossed my radar—it’d been a couple of months, so I knew he wasn’t dead. I showed up at his office. With the extreme change in my appearance, the receptionist refused to believe I was Bing Westerman’s son. We argued, and he came out of his office to see what the commotion was about.”
Deacon paused, letting the memory from that day solidify. His father had run toward him. Run. In his three-piece suit. And he’d wept. Openly. Repeatedly.
“What happened?”
“He hugged me. I . . . It’d been a long time since I’d had anyone touch me not out of anger, so I balked. Then he said, ‘Lemme have a look at you, son.’ I’d grown two inches, packed on forty pounds—mostly muscle—shorn my hair, and inked my skin. I honestly hadn’t expected him to recognize me.”
“What did he say when he finished inspecting you?”
“‘You erased all traces of him, didn’t you?’”
“Whoa. Did he mean you’d erased the old you? Or that you’d erased any resemblance to Dante?”
“Both, probably. I didn’t ask. Then, before it got even more awkward, he asked me to lunch. He took me to a chain barbecue joint, not the hole-in-the-wall place by his office he’d always taken us to before.” Us. God. He’d forgotten how much Dante had loved barbecue. “Anyway, I figured he’d taken me someplace where no one knew him because I embarrassed him. I made up my mind to leave right after lunch. He sensed my intention to bolt and told me he brought me there because after not seeing me for almost five years he doubted he’d taste the food anyway, so he might as well eat crap.”
“He sounds like a sweet man.”
“He can be at times.” And that did mark a big shift in their relationship. “We stayed in that booth for four hours and talked. I refused to see my mother, although I agreed he could tell her that I was all right.” Deacon’s throat felt scratchy. “Molly, darlin’, I need to get a drink.”
“I wondered if you needed one. I’ve never heard you talk so much.”
He retreated to the break room and drank a full glass of water. Then he stared at the empty cup for several long moments. How much more did she need to know?
His brother offered advice. All of it. No sense in giving her the CliffsNotes version now.
Dammit, Dante. Talking about you makes me miss you.
Well, I was the cooler twin, so I can see why. But you have the chance to let her fill part of that void I left. Figure this shit out, bro, so you can move on.
But if I move on, will you too?
No answer.
Deacon returned to the reception area and resumed his place in front of the windows.
“Better?”
“I guess.”
“Do you want keep going?”
“There’s not that much left. By the end of our lunch, Dad asked me to come to work in the family business. He offered to hire a trainer to help me advance to the next level in cage fighting.”