10. Michael
CHAPTER TEN
MICHAEL
Returning from lunch with Doyle, I was in high spirits. But as soon as we walked into the shop, my good mood evaporated.
My father stood there, eyes blazing with anger.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice low but threatening. "What were you thinking, coming here when Michael was doing so well?"
Doyle took a step forward, his expression calm.
"Michael is struggling. Can't you see it? I just came to see how he was doing,” Doyle said.
I felt my face flush with embarrassment. There were customers milling around, glancing curiously at the unfolding drama.
"I can protect Michael on my own. You're not needed," my father eventually shouted, his voice echoing in the shop.
"Dad, stop," I tried to intervene, but Doyle had an unreadable look on his face.
He turned to me, his eyes softer than his words.
"I'll leave. I don't want to cause any further trouble," he said, gaze on me.
"Call me when you get there?" I asked tentatively.
I didn’t want him gone. In fact, today had been one of my better days where I didn’t feel like a complete freak.
Doyle nodded and walked away, his departure leaving a heavy silence in the shop.
I felt frustration and anger bubble up inside me, directed squarely at my father.
My dad had completely ignored our conversation during the party, where I had explained how important Doyle was to me.
On one hand, I understood where my dad was coming from.
Doyle’s job was dangerous, and being with him wasn’t safe, but I had some time to think.
The risk to me was acceptable. I could not bear the thought of not having Doyle in my life.
In hindsight, my dad had said we’d continue that conversation, but we never did.
Maybe he had hoped that by not bringing it up, I would forget about Doyle entirely. But that was impossible.
Doyle had become a significant part of my life, someone who understood my pain and helped me feel whole again.
I couldn’t just erase him from my mind or heart.
"Michael—” my dad began, but I cut him off with a curt, "I'll be in the office."
I locked myself in there, the walls feeling like they were closing in.
I busied myself with paperwork and anything else I could find, refusing to speak another word to my father for the rest of the day.
The tension in the shop was palpable, and every tick of the clock seemed to drag out the silence between us.
When closing time finally came, I gathered my things and left the office, avoiding my father's gaze.
I needed space, time to think. As I walked out, I could feel my father watching me, but I didn't look back.
My mind was already focused on the phone call I’d make as soon as I was alone.
As I walked back home, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
My skin prickled, and I instinctively glanced over my shoulder.
A non-descript brown car followed at a distance, its dark color blending into the surroundings.
It had the right state plates and nothing else seemed out of place, but I couldn't help but feel uneasy.
Maybe I was just being paranoid. Perhaps the driver was simply going the same way I was. Either way, I quickened my pace.
I considered taking the bus, but home was just a few blocks away, and walking was faster.
I risked another look over my shoulder, relieved to see the car had disappeared.
Once I was on my street, I chalked it up to my mind going into overdrive.
I overheard Stan asking my dad out for a drink at the shop earlier, so at least I'd have the house to myself for a few hours.
After showering, I called Doyle, eager to hear his voice.
"You never called me back," I said.
"Sorry, I lost track of time," Doyle admitted.
I could hear a few voices in the background.
"Did I call at a bad time?" I asked.
"We're about to start a meeting," Doyle said, sounding apologetic. "Our allies have—no, I shouldn't be talking to you about it."
I felt a little disappointed but understood.
"Alright, let's talk another time," I said.
There was a momentary pause before Doyle spoke again, “Michael, seeing you today was a bad idea. Maybe your father's right. I am hindering your healing process. It's probably better I keep my distance for a while."
Someone called Doyle's name in the background.
"Doyle, that's not—" I interrupted, but he cut me off.
"Sorry, got to go. Be safe, Michael," Doyle said, ending the call before I could say more.
I stared at my cellphone, my heart plummeting.
I curled up on the window ledge, wondering how today had started so amazing and turned wrong in an instant.
As I gazed out the window, debating how I could fix this, I noticed the same car from earlier parked across the street.
My heart raced. I wasn't imagining it after all.
The car's windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Panic surged through me.
What if Liliana’s cronies had found me? I quickly dialed Doyle's number again, but it went straight to voicemail.
I grabbed a baseball bat from my closet, my heart pounding in my chest. Slowly, I crept downstairs, trying to stay as quiet as possible.
I peeked out the front window, but the car remained still.
My mind raced with possible scenarios. Should I confront the driver? Call the police? Tried shifting and running away?
I knew I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.
Just as I was about to make a decision, the car door opened, and a figure stepped out.
I strained to see in the dim light. The figure moved cautiously, glancing around as if making sure no one was watching.
My grip tightened on the bat, ready to defend myself if necessary. To my surprise, the figure walked towards my house and stopped at the mailbox.
They pulled out a letter and placed it inside before quickly returning to the car and driving away.
I waited until the car disappeared before rushing outside to check the mailbox.
My hands trembled as I pulled out the letter. There was no return address, just my name scrawled on the front.
I tore it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.
"Michael, Liliana misses you. She hasn’t forgotten you.”
I reread the words over and over again as I returned to the house. Immediately, I locked all the doors.
As an extra precaution, I checked the back door in the kitchen as well.
I returned to my room and remained by my window ledge, just to see if the car would come back.
The baseball bat, I kept nearby and the letter remained on my desk.
Shivering, I curled into a ball, eyes glued to the window. Memories of being Liliana's captive familiar came back to me.
Squeezing my eyes shut didn't make the memories disappear.
I found myself hyperventilating, my breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, my chest tightening as if an iron band was squeezing it.
I clutched my sides, trying to anchor myself.
I didn't know how much time had passed, how much time I had wasted lost in my own past, but I heard the front door opening, followed by voices.
I sat up, reaching for the bat, thinking the driver had returned, but I relaxed a little when I recognized the voices of my dad and Stan.
I was still standing, holding onto my pathetic little weapon when a knock came on my door.
My dad entered, looking completely hammered, but seeing me, he sobered up.
"Michael, why are you holding a bat?" he asked.
I let go of the bat and, without knowing why, I ran up to him and hugged him.
He hesitated, then returned the hug. He smelled of booze and smoke, but underneath that, he also smelled like my dad.
Home. Tears started to well up, and I didn't know why I was crying—or maybe I did.
Maybe in my own naive way, I had figured that once I was back in Oak Meadow, I would be untouchable.
That I could just leave the past behind.
The moment I let my guard down, that illusion of safety was shattered. Somehow, Liliana’s people had managed to track me down.
Then again, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where I would return to, would it?
Either way, I wasn’t certain why they would come back for me. It wasn’t like I was important.
Familiars came and went. But Liliana kept you alive, a dark voice inside me whispered.
What if she had a special purpose for you? I shuddered, not wanting to think about that further.
"Michael, calm down. Tell me what happened,” he said.
Somehow, he persuaded me to sit down.
I babbled, unsure if he could understand what I was saying. Eventually, I showed him the letter and his face hardened.
"Dad, I think we need to call Doyle," I whispered.
"Michael," he said, kneeling down so he was looking at me at eye level.
He continued, “We don't need Doyle. I meant what I said this afternoon. If these bastards come back for you, I'll handle all of them myself. You hear? This time, I won't let them take you away from me, son."
I stared into his eyes, seeing the fierce determination there. But it wasn't just determination; it was fear, too. Fear of losing me again.
He might not understand everything I'd gone through, but he understood enough to know that I needed protection.
And for the first time, I saw that his bravado was just that—a front.
Behind it all, he was just as scared as I was. When I was a kid, I always thought of him as infallible—a rock I could always depend on.
He was my hero, my protector, the one who could chase away the monsters under my bed.
But after being in Liliana’s world and then Doyle’s, I realized how small we truly were in the grand scheme of things.
It was a harsh reality to accept.
"Okay, Dad," I said, trying to prevent my voice from trembling. "But if things get bad, we need to call Doyle. Please."
He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"Alright, son. We'll call him if we have to. But for now, let's just focus on keeping you safe here,” he said.
I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease.
For tonight, at least, I was home. And I had my dad. In the back of my mind, I knew we couldn’t do this alone.
Calling Doyle was the best solution but…I thought of our phone call earlier.
Doyle probably had a lot going on, and I didn’t want to add more to his plate. Despite my misgivings, I didn’t call him back.
“Have you had anything to eat tonight, Mike?” my dad asked, trying to lighten the mood.
I shook my head. “I don’t have an appetite,” I said.
“Well, I’m in the mood for an omelet,” he said. “I can make two.”
“Omelet for dinner?” I asked, playing along, because we both needed a sense of normalcy right now.
“Why not?” my dad replied with a shrug.
“Alright,” I said with a nod.
We made our way to the kitchen, and I felt a little better.
The familiar sounds of my dad rummaging through the fridge and clattering pans on the stove helped ground me.
I leaned against the counter, watching my dad whisk eggs.
As he tossed diced vegetables and cheese into the pan, the aroma started to fill the kitchen, bringing a sense of warmth and normalcy.
It struck me why this scene seemed so familiar—Doyle had made me breakfast the first morning I finally realized I was free.
The memory of Doyle asking me how I wanted my eggs came rushing back and the longing hit me hard.
I missed him terribly all of a sudden.
That was unfair, I reminded myself, pushing the thought away and focusing on my dad instead.
My dad glanced at me, a soft smile on his face.
“You always liked extra cheese in your omelet, right?” My dad asked.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, recalling how awful to him I’d been this afternoon.
“Yeah, extra cheese,” I agreed.
“Do you remember the last time we had omelets for dinner?” my dad asked.
I thought back, trying to recall.
“I think it was after one of my soccer games. I must have been around ten,” I said.
He smiled. “Yeah, you were so exhausted you fell asleep at the table. I had to carry you to bed.”
We both laughed, the memory a small cure to our frayed nerves. For a moment, my problems didn’t matter.
We were just a father and son, sharing a meal and a memory.
As we sat down to eat, I felt hope rise inside me. Maybe, we could get through this mess on our own, even without Doyle’s help.