Page 120 of Restore Me

But I know better.

Leaving Sloane’s bed to come and check on him of all people set my teeth on edge, but he’s been asking to see me for weeks. And according to his nurse Angie, who called for the sole purpose of shaming me into rushing to his bedside, he just found out the lung cancer he’s been fighting for years is no longer responding to treatment. Thankfully, Sloane was in the bathroom when the call came through, so she didn’t have to see me feel nothing when the words ‘maybe a few more months’ and ‘palliative care’ filtered through the speakers.

I don’t want her anywhere near that version of me. The angry, bitter man who shed the last vestiges of childish love for his father somewhere between relapses one and two when the diagnosis became another weapon in his arsenal, an aid in his manipulation, a license to unleash his inner-demons whenever and where ever he pleased.

Yeah, subjecting her to that would be disastrous, and so much worse than being weird and evasive when she asked about the tattoo I got to remember the day she walked into my life and changed it forever. I hated avoiding her question, hated the way it sounded like there was someone else for me when there’s only her.

I could see that’s what she was thinking, and before I could tell her the truth, or figure out why the idea of there being someone else looked like it devastated her, she went to the bathroom and I got the call that changed the entire course of our night.

Now I’m here—walking into the living room of a man who looks surprisingly chipper for someone who’s just been given a few months to live—wondering what would have happened if I’d just told her the truth.

“If you came to spit on my grave, you’re a couple of months early.”

“I’m not here to spit on your grave.” It’d be a waste of saliva.

“Well sit down, boy. Cancer ain’t contagious, you know.”

“Yeah, Pop. I know.”

He peers at me over a pair of reading glasses as I settle into the chair beside him. “Sure as hell can’t tell by the way you been ignoring my calls. Angie had to tell you I was dying before you could be bothered to come across town.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to come and see your dying father.” He shakes his head. “Selfish. Just selfish. I don’t know where you got that from. Certainly wasn’t from your Mama, that woman was an angel. She didn’t have a selfish bone in her body.”

I give him a pointed look. “Guess that only leaves one other option.”

“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? I’m the bad guy. I’m the selfish, mean drunk who was unlucky enough to raise a bastard of a son that thinks he’s so much better than him.”

The muscle in my jaw starts to tick, and I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of this entire situation. Me, coming down here to see him out of some misguided sense of obligation, leaving Sloane by herself to draw all sorts of conclusions about the things I didn’t say. Him, not being able to go five minutes without laying into me.

“Think? I’ve never laid a hand on a woman, Pop. Can you say the same?” His mouth falls open as he flounders for an answer, and I wave him off with my hand. “Don’t answer that because we both know the truth. I saw you hit Mom. I saw every slap across her face, and every tear she cried while she covered up the bruises yo—”

“Shut up!” He jumps up from his seat to stand over me.

Once upon a time, I would have been frightened by his raised voice and the anger stamped across his face, but today the sight just makes me want to laugh. Because I could stand up right now and tower over him. I could knock his ass back in his seat without breaking a sweat.

And we both know it, but I’m the only one smiling about it.

“You think it’s funny?” He snarls. “You’re not any different than me, boy. Don’t think for a second there aren’t people in the world you’ve hurt. Some of them on purpose, some of them by mistake, but either way you hurt them. And that makes you a piece of shit just like me.”

I watch him shuffle over to his kitchen. “I’m nothing like you.”

He’s spent his whole life letting the monster in him run the show, but I’ve dedicated my mine to fighting it off. Building an impenetrable fortress around it to ensure it never got out.

“You can keep telling yourself that, boy, but know this: being slow to strike, doesn’t make you any less deadly.”

His words land like a physical blow, finding the weak spot in my resistance that’s been splintering since the first night Sloane let me touch her—when I felt more like him than I ever have. I let my guard down and my monster slipped out, baring its teeth and clawing at anything that came close enough to hurt her.

And it wasn’t the last time I let it come out to play.

I threatened James with bodily harm. I fantasized about the way Ash’s teeth would feel shattering against my fist when I saw his hands on her and regretted not getting the chance to find out.

Until this instant, I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve been too preoccupied with Sloane to pay attention to the moments, which seem harmless on their own, but together suggest a pattern of behavior. A dangerous list of exceptions made for a part of me that hasn’t been able to stretch its legs fully in decades.

“Don’t act like you know anything about me.”

A sly smile curls his lips as he heads towards the freezer and pulls out a bottle of liquor. Bile rises in my throat as I stare at him, and I fight it off. Consoling myself with the knowledge that unlike the bastard I’m currently sharing air with, every time I’ve given in to my more primal instincts, it’s been to keep the woman I love safe. It’s never been fueled by alcohol and certainly never meant to hurt her.

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