Sparrow

“Everyone’s taking their seats inside. Shouldn’t be more than a couple more minutes, ma’am.”

I looked back to my father as he handed me the purple bouquet. He leaned forward, kissing my forehead gently. He reeked of alcohol. Not the cheap kind either. Brennan must’ve spoiled him with the good stuff now that we were all about to become one big, unhappy, screwed-up family.

“I wish your mom was here to see this.” He sighed, his wrinkled forehead collapsing into a frown, his eyes two pools of grief.

“Don’t,” I cut him off flatly, relieved to hear there was not a trace of emotion in my voice anymore. “We haven’t laid eyes on that woman since I was three years old. Wherever she ran off to, she doesn’t deserve to take part in this, or anything else in my life. Besides, you did a good job taking care of me on your own.” I patted his thigh awkwardly.

It was true. Robyn Raynes wasn’t my mother, she was a woman who gave birth to me and left shortly after. I supposed most people would feel more strongly about it on the day of their wedding, but (a) this wasn’t my wedding, not my real one anyway, and (b) when your parent deserted you, you had two choices: you either let it define and rule you, or you moved on, making a point to show the world that you didn’t give a rat’s ass where your mother had gone.

I tried falling into the second category, and I rarely slipped.

Pops loved what he was hearing. His eyes shone with pride and surprise. Of course, I’d sugarcoated the hell out of our history. But somehow, I recognized today was just as difficult for my dad as it was for me. A raging alcoholic or not, he’d always put a distance between me and his job with the Brennans, and I knew he wanted nothing more than to shield me from these people.

As for his parenting abilities, truth be told, he had taken care of me on his own ever since I was a toddler. He was never abusive or impatient, even if he was a little on the clueless and insensitive side. There were even women he’d dated who’d played house and were my temporary “mommies” until they realized my father’s love for the hard stuff would always run much deeper than his love for them. Mostly, though, it was just me and him.

Well, me, him and the alcohol.

Even though I loved him, I knew my father wasn’t a good man. When I was growing up and he worked for Cillian Brennan, too often he came home bruised from fights. I dealt with surprise visits from the cops, and I brought him fresh clothes and cigarettes plenty of times when he was arrested. He was now employed by Troy, probably doing something just as illegal.

Pops was an alcoholic and a terrible Casanova with the ladies, but he was also the only person who loved me, who cared, who burnt himself on the stove trying to make chicken noodle soup for me—not the canned type, the real deal—when I caught pneumonia.

He deserved a little happiness, even if it was on my account.

“I love you, Birdie.” He let a single, fat tear roll down his wrinkle-mapped cheek as he pressed both his paws to my face.

I nodded, leaning my face into one of his palms. I stroked his forehead with the pads of my fingers. “Love you too, Pops.”

“Alrighty-o. Ready? Here we go.” The cheery driver pushed his door open and walked around the limo, opening the door for me.

I slid out carefully, noting that the front yard of the church was mostly empty, other than few elderly men scattered around, still caught up in business talk. Pops followed behind, but broke to the left where he spotted the small group of washed-up men.

“I need to catch a word with Benny. I’ll be back in a minute. Let the groom wait a little while. Be right back, little darlin’.” He winked and marched toward the herd of suited men at the corner of the cobblestone church.

I frowned, adjusting my dress. It was an uncharacteristically cold June day, but I knew better than to think goose bumps broke on my skin because of the chill. I eyed the opening in the high stone wall beside me and spotted a tiny garden with a bench. I wished I could hide there.

Then I heard him.

A man speaking softly to his son on the other side of the wall. His voice was gentle, but still throaty and gruff at the same time. I’m not sure why, but the sound of him seeped into my body like warm liquor on a stormy night.

“Of course, Abraham wasn’t a bad man, but he did what he thought he had to do, and that was to sacrifice his child to God.”