Prologue
"What's wrong with you?"
"Why do you gotta be so weird?"
"You've always got your face buried in that damn game."
"You need to get in the real world."
"Why can't you just be normal?"
"Why was I the one who had to get a fucking retard for a kid?"
I didn't just hear the words. I felt them. I believed them. I had no reason not to. My father was the one saying them. He was a man I was supposed to love and trust, but sadly, I didn't. I hated him, and I certainly didn't trust him.
My mother didn't either—at least, not like she did.
There was a time when she loved him and believed that she'd found her Mr. Right.
Sadly, when I came along, she discovered she was wrong, and that realization brought on a great deal of guilt.
Not just for her, but for me as well. She hated that he wasn't the father she thought he'd be, and I hated that having me as a kid was so fucking terrible that it had turned him into an asshole.
Mom held on for years, praying that eventually things would get better, but they never did. In fact, they only got worse, and when their fights became physical, she had no choice but to file for divorce.
That's when things really took a turn for the worse.
My father's fuse became even shorter, which meant there was even more yelling, name-calling, and manhandling. It seemed he was intent on proving that tough love would turn me into a normal kid. Mom could see the emotional damage he was inflicting and feared he'd take things too far.
And he did.
I can’t remember what set him off. I’m sure it had something to do with me spending too much time on my game or the fact that I wouldn’t answer when he spoke, but I'll never forget the look of anger and disgust in his eyes when he grabbed me and started yelling at me.
There was a lot of cursing and belittling, typical bullshit, but this time was different. This time he nearly broke my arm—which was why I ran.
It wasn't an idea I'd come to on my own.
Mom was terrified that dad would take things too far and begged the courts to take away his rights to visitation, but they refused. Knowing there was a good chance that something terrible might happen, Mom suggested that I get away from him if he tried to hurt me and hide out at a nearby diner.
And that's exactly what I did.
I ran with all my might, and when I finally made it to the diner, I found a dark spot next to the parking lot and sat down with my back against the side of the building. I wrapped my arms around my knees and lowered my head, praying it wouldn't be long before my mother found me.
I hadn't been sitting there long when I heard the loud rumble of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot. The headlights shone bright, casting away the dark shadows of the night sky, but they only lasted for a moment. Soon, the engine died, and silence fell on the parking lot once again.
My heart started to race when I heard a scuffle of rocks, and the sound only grew louder as someone's boots started walking over to me. Seconds later, I heard, "You alright, kid?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
My mind was too busy trying to make sense of the stranger standing before me. He was a big guy, bigger than any man I'd ever been around, and he had a thick, burly beard and countless tattoos. His large stature alone should've been enough to have me trembling in my Nikes.
But I wasn't scared.
Not in the least.
And that intrigued the hell out of me.
I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know where he was from and what he was doing here at this diner. I wanted to know why he was so big and why he had such a big beard. More than that, I wanted to know why he had come over to check on me.
I don't know how long he stood there studying me with those coal-black eyes, but it seemed like an eternity. He let out a deep breath, and for a moment, I thought he was going to turn and walk away, leaving me alone out there in the dark.
But he didn't.
Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the hard brick wall.
He didn't say a word. He simply stood there next to me, and I got the feeling he wasn’t going anywhere.
It was like he had it set in his head that he was going to stay there and watch out for me.
We both remained painfully silent as I sat curled up in a ball next to him.
I kept thinking that he'd say or do something, but he never said a word.
And neither did I.
About half an hour in, a car pulled into the lot, shining its bright lights on us.
I didn’t think much of it until I noticed the man’s expression had suddenly changed and had become eerily fierce.
It took me a moment, but I soon realized he was staring at my arm.
He’d seen the bruises my father had left on me, and he was clearly bothered by them.
I moved my arm to my side and pretended that it wasn't bothering me, but it was clear from his expression that it was bothering him. He took another deep, cleansing breath, then stepped forward and towered over me.
"Look, kid. I'm starving." His voice was low and steady as he continued, "How about we go inside, and I'll buy you a cheeseburger."
I glanced up at him, and I could see that he was being genuinely sincere. For a second, I almost agreed to take him up on his offer, but then I remembered how my mother had told me never to talk to strangers. The memory of her warning had me shaking my head.
"They make really great burgers, kid." Again, his voice was low and reassuring. "You sure you don't want one?"
"I like chicken nuggets," I answered as I stared down at my shoes.
"They've got chicken nuggets."
I thought for a moment, then finally answered, "Okay."
I stood and brushed the dust and rocks off my backside, then followed the man over to the front door.
Once we were inside, I headed to the back of the diner and sat down in one of the corner booths.
I rested my elbows on the table, propped my chin in my hands, and watched as he sat down across from me.
He settled back in the booth, then motioned over to the waitress. Once he'd ordered our food, he turned his attention back to me. "You live around here?"
"No," I answered, playing with the paper from my straw.
I folded the paper into several different shapes and then turned my focus to the other items on the table, putting them each in a perfectly straight line.
I was taking the salt and pepper shakers in and out of the line when the waitress brought over our food.
I dove into my chicken nuggets, and it wasn't long before I started to feel more at ease.
I looked up at the man, staring at his tough features as I announced, "You've got a bushy beard and lots of tattoos."
"Yeah, I do."
"The internet says that tattoos are a form of self-expression. That each tattoo has an important meaning."
"I'd say that's about right."
"You also drive a Harley Davidson motorcycle."
"You're pretty observant, kid."
I took another bite of my chicken nugget as I told him, "Harley Davidson motorcycles were founded in 1903, and they were first used by police officers in Detroit, Michigan."
This man was big and had a threatening appearance, but I didn't think twice about rattling off all the facts I'd learned about Harleys.
It was something I'd never do with my ol' man—at least, not anymore.
He had no patience for my lust for information and was quick to tell me so.
I had so many things I wanted to share with my father, but I learned it was best to just keep my mouth shut.
It felt good to be able to speak freely, especially with a complete stranger. Not once did I feel like I was weird or there was something wrong with me. I didn’t feel like an outcast or something less. I felt like a regular kid sharing something that was important to me with a friend.
I continued to talk to him about various Harleys and the men who first drove them. In between breaths, he ordered me a sundae, then asked, "You gonna tell me why you're hiding out in the parking lot?"
"Momma told me to come here, to the Old Mill Café, if something bad ever happened." I swallowed hard before adding, "It's our secret place."
Before he could respond, the waitress brought over a sundae and placed it on the table.
I immediately grabbed my spoon and started to dig in.
As I ate, I looked around the room. The diner was quiet, just an elderly couple sitting at one of the front tables.
From time to time, the old lady would turn and sneak a peek at us, clearly curious about what was going on with us, but I didn’t care.
I was perfectly content sitting there with him. I had a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach as I looked up at him and said, "Thank you. This is good."
"You got a name?"
"It's Wyatt."
"My name's Stitch."
"Your momma named you Stitch?"
"Nah. My mother named me Griffin, but all my brothers in my club call me Stitch."
While he hadn't actually explained why he was given the nickname, I was able to put two and two together on my own. Something bad had happened to him, probably more than once, and it had left him needing stitches. I looked out the window as I confessed, "My momma had to get stitches one time."
I figured he would ask me why, but he didn’t. Instead, he considered what I’d said and gave me a slight nod. After several quiet moments, he asked, "You think we should call her? Tell her you're at the special spot?"
"Yeah."
Stitch had just started to reach for his phone when there was a commotion at the front door that caught his attention.
His eyes widened, and a strange look crossed his face.
I couldn’t make out what was being said behind me, but it was clear that something was wrong.
Curious, I turned to see what was happening and was both surprised and relieved to see that it was my mother who was causing the disruption.
Her face went pale as soon as she turned to look in our direction.
Frozen in her stance, her dark brown eyes slowly drifted over Stitch, and with each second that passed, she appeared more and more frightened.
As soon as she reached our booth, she knelt down next to me and placed her hand on my knee.
Even though she tried to hide it, I could tell that she was worried when she whispered, “Hey, Buddy. Are you okay?"
I nodded, then told her, “This is Griffin. He got me some chicken nuggets, but I'm done now. Can we go home?"
"Hi, Griffin. I'm Wren.” She gave him a forced smile, then turned her attention back to me. "Yeah, buddy. We can go. You did a good job getting here. I'm so proud of you.”
"I went down Tucker Street and turned right on Main,” I replied proudly. “Just like you showed me."
"You are such a smart boy.” She brushed my long hair out of my eyes, then looked back over to Stitch as she explained, "I know this looks bad…
really bad, but I'm doing the best I can.
I'd tell you what this was all about, but it would take a lifetime to explain.
Right now, I need to get him home. How much do I owe you for the food? "
"Don't worry about it. I got it," Stitch told her.
"Thank you so much for looking out for him.”
Without giving Stitch a chance to respond, she took me by the hand and helped me out of the booth.
Stitch stood up along with me, but he didn’t follow us as we started towards the front door.
We were just about to go outside when Mom stopped and rushed back over to Stitch.
She reached for his hand and whispered something I couldn’t make out.
Moments later, she made her way back over to me, and we left.
I thought that would be the last time I saw Stitch.
It wasn’t.
Our brief encounter was the first of many to come.
Over the next twenty years, Stitch and his brothers became an integral part of my life—my mother’s, too. They showed us both what it was to truly trust and to love unconditionally, and by doing so, they helped mold me into the man I am today.