Chapter 2 #2
It’s the kind of okay that’s not really okay. Preacher’s still holding onto the same stupid hope that he hasn’t been able to let go of where I’m concerned, since I showed up here five years ago.
“How many years is it gonna take before you let your hope for me go?” I snap. “I’m never gonna want to walk down the street in the middle of the day, or be a part of anything that functions in the light.”
Preacher just stand there and lets me rant.
“You think a twenty-one year old kid wants to deal with this?” I wave a hand over myself.
Preacher knows what I mean. “Your daughter is all you, Preach. She’s sweet and gentle and good.
She truly cares about people. I saw all of that from a distance, when you told me to watch out for her.
The night of the fire I was sitting up on the roof smoking when I saw the flames.
I’m not a hero no matter what anyone thinks.
She’ll take one look at me and live with that burden forever. ”
Preacher lets that linger in weighted silence. “I don’t think you’re giving Fawnie enough credit,” he finally says, maddeningly.
“Whatever,” I retort. Temporarily out of comebacks.
“You’ve lived all this time trying not to be bitter. Don’t start now.”
“Sage advice. If you’d like to show yourself out the door you’re standing right in front of, it might save me telling you to go fuck yourself.”
“You can tell me if you’d like.”
I heave out a sigh that goes on and on, until it rattles in my chest. “You know that I won’t. It’s pointless. You won’t listen anyway. You never did want me to just rot.”
“What happened wasn’t a punishment. You saved two lives.”
“One of them was a cat.”
“My daughter’s had Bubby since she was a little girl. You have no idea how much that cat means to her. And she’s still a living being.”
“Technically I did get burned saving the feline, so maybe I should be telling it to go fuck itself.”
“She’d probably give you the cat middle finger right back.”
“I’d appreciate her honesty. People have a real problem with pitying sorry looking things like me.” Twisted skin is ugly, but it seems to be contagious. No one wants to get too close. People either stare or they don’t and that’s on purpose.
“In all seriousness, you look like a person with scars. It’s the way it is. You have people who love you. What else matters? When you’re riding, with your vest and your helmet on, no one gives a damn what you look like. You’re just the same as everyone else.”
He’s about to leave when he turns back to me.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Preacher’s voice is thick. Too heavy. He stares at his boots like he’s nervous about unmanning himself in front of me even though he’s seen me lose my shit and bawl like a baby more times than I’d care to count. More being at least once, which is one time too many.
“I didn’t want you to feel responsible for me,” I say.
“They could have told me at any time and I would have known it was you.”
“As was their right, but it didn’t have to come from me. I guess I would have taken your charity if they had, but seeing as your ex-wife completely cut you out, I figured I’d be safe on the communication front.”
“I would never have treated you like a charity case or an obligation. You’re a person. You should have trusted that.”
I lift a shoulder casually, trying to ignore the look of half betrayal on his face. “I did. It was just easier not to tell you.”
“I don’t feel obligated. What I feel is gratitude. Love. Brotherhood. Community. It’s not the same thing.”
“If you ever decide to change your mind and go off on some weird tangent, just remember. We’re even.”
“It’s never been about keeping score.”
My eyes narrow. “Fine. Just make sure it never is.”
“I’ll make sure. But I still think you should meet with Fawnie.”
“Hart’s big enough for the both of us to exist without having to brush up against each other.”
“You pull out of here in the middle of the night—”
“I’m not going anywhere. At least, not yet. Besides, the club isn’t that kind of club. People can leave if they want to.”
“What if I’d never forgive you? What if your leaving caused me immeasurable pain and worry? What if it hurt Fawnie? You think it would be easy to live with that?”
“For you or for me? And that’s hardly fair. Scratch the hardly.”
“If asking you nicely doesn’t work, I might just have to guilt trip you into it. Make up some nonsense. Say things will change. Act butthurt.”
I very, very nearly give in and laugh. Preacher is the worst actor and the worst liar I’ve ever seen. “I can’t believe you say butthurt when you used to be a pastor.”
“Of everything I just said, that’s what you’re gonna point out? And may I add, fuck off.”
“I know it’s just words. You love your daughter. I get that. I know you won’t push me into it, guilt trip me, or act like any other regular douchebag. You’re Preacher. I know the man you are.”
“Would you like me to beg then?”
“Are you for real? Is this that important to you?”
“Yes.”
My stomach rolls and acid claws up my throat. It’s more than a bitter taste in my mouth. “Why?”
Right. Because she’s his daughter and he loves her.
“You don’t have to meet her, but will you give her something? A video call? She doesn’t have to even know what you look like or that you were injured helping her. If you’re worried about her feeling any sort of guilt—”
I let out a sigh. “Okay. A regular phone call. No fancy shit. I’ll give her five minutes.
” I squeeze my eyes shut. That was not what I wanted to come out.
I’d spend the rest of the day being a stubborn prick, but with Preacher, I know he won’t back down.
“She can thank me or whatever it is she needs to say and that’ll be that. Yeah? Is that enough?”
“I don’t honestly know, but it’s something, and something will mean more than anything to her.”
“She’s not gonna get weird and try to save me from myself, is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“She is your daughter.”
Preacher’s brow creases further, as if I didn’t just volunteer to solve this for him at great personal expense. Or something like that.
“I’ll get a burner phone tomorrow. I’ll drop it off and tell her she has an hour to call after she gets it. Will you answer then? Please?”
“I love that you still say please.”
“You’re not obligated.”
“Aren’t I?”
“No,” he says flatly, but we both know it isn’t really true. “You answer that call and I’ll ask Rita to make you that cherry cheesecake you like. A whole one.”
“There’s this wonderful thing called takeout. I could order one up anytime I like. You can even get groceries online and dropped right at your door. But props for resorting to some form of bribery at last. I like it. Lowering your moral standards, one dessert at a time.”
He’s the one who rolls his eyes.
He opens the door and I do the hospitable thing and walk over to close it after him. He stands on the doorstep under the covered overhang where I park my bike. He gives me that look that says he’s both worried about me, thankful as hell, and that he hasn’t properly processed any of this.
“If I answer that call, you had best make sure it’s the best cheesecake of my life, or screw the unobligated thing. You’re gonna owe me, and I’ll make sure it’s something that you can’t live down.”
“Don’t push your luck, sunshine,” he grunts.
I just stare back blankly at him.
He gives me a tight nod, one of those things guys do for each other that says a whole lot more than words can say. We’ve said enough for now. Far more than enough. This is probably more words than I’ve uttered in the last year combined.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like Preacher walking away, knowing, and everything being different. What is there to do about it? Just like most things in my life, I know the answer to that is nothing.