Disgrace

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“It’s not,” he snapped. Obviously, my comment got under his skin. “She’s not herself. She would never fall for a guy like you.”

“A guy like me?”

“You know…” His words faded away, and he shrugged. “You’re just not her type.”

“She must be more into cheating assholes.”

“Don’t act like you know me or my wife. We’ve been through more than you know. So, do me a favor and stay away from her.”

“No.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“She’s a grown woman. She can make her own choices. Now, get out of my shop before you’re unable to leave on your own.”

He let out a low whistle. “Quite a temper you’ve got there. Okay, I’m going. But if you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance from Grace.”

“I’ve never been known to be a smart man,” I sneered.

He nodded and turned to walk away. Before leaving, he glanced over at Tucker. “You should seriously think about putting that thing down. It’s a bit inhumane to keep him alive like that.”

He flung the door open and left, but not before his words hit me hard in my soul.

I walked over to Tucker, who was back in his dog bed, and I pet his head. “You’re a good boy, Tuck,” I told him, rubbing right behind his ear. My voice cracked, and I studied his tired self.

You’re a good boy.

* * *

After I finished up at the shop, I headed over to Dad’s house to check in on him. He’d been pretty quiet over the past few days, which normally meant he was drunk, or…well, drunk. When I walked into his house, he was sitting on the couch, eating a TV dinner with a beer can in his grip. The only thing he ever watched was the news because he liked to remind himself exactly how much the world sucked.

He heard my footsteps, but he didn’t turn to greet me. He never did, really. We didn’t have the type of father-son relationship where we truly talked. We mostly just grumbled in each other’s general direction and complained about the other being a pain in the ass.

“That shit is still in my shop,” he sneered, stuffing a forkful of food into his mouth before chasing it down with the beer. “It’s been weeks now, and that bitch’s car is still in my shop.”

I cringed. “Don’t call her a bitch.”

He glanced over at me and gave me his narrowed stare. His thick gray eyebrows lowered, and he let out a sound like a growl. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? Don’t forget whose house this is, boy.”

He loved to use that line about the house—and about the shop, and about the cabin next to the shop. He loved feeling as if he was the power behind everything we had. What he never seemed to notice was who paid the bills, who showed up to work, who cleaned the house. He hardly did anything with his time except drink and watch the news.

My father wasn’t a person. He was the walking dead.

“I’m not gonna tell you again—get that car out of the shop,” he ordered, but his words meant nothing to me. He didn’t have the focus or the work ethic to actually have the car removed himself. Therefore, it would be fine.

He was all bark, no bite, just a bitter old man with a heart that no longer beat.

I had my mom to thank for that one.

“Don’t you know what those people have done to this family, Jackson?” he asked me. “How they never once helped us? They put us through hell.”

“Yeah, I know.” But did he? Did he know how Grace had pulled him halfway across town to get him out of harm’s way? Did he know how she’d showered him, cleaned his place, and sat with him just to make sure he didn’t choke on his vomit?

Did he see her blue eyes when she cried, her shaking when she was afraid?

Did he not see how she was more than just a Harris? How she, too, had had things done to her? That she, too, had been through her own hell?

I blinked my eyes shut.

There she was again, filling my mind.

Why couldn’t I stop thinking of her?

Shake it off, Jackson.

I walked over to his refrigerator and opened it, seeing all the food I’d bought was already gone. “You’re supposed to tell me when the food’s low,” I told him.

“I ain’t gotta tell you shit,” he replied, flipping me off. I flipped him off right back.

Like father, like son.

“Is it true?” he asked.

“Is what true?”

“The rumors about you fucking that girl?”

Every inch of my body tensed. “What did you just say?”

“Is it true that you’re fucking a Harris?”

I didn’t reply because he didn’t deserve a reply. It was none of his business what or who I was doing.