Page 86 of Moving Forward

We walk to the edge of the dock, and I cup her elbow as she sits down. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable near water with her again. That scene, Max hitting her head and then disappearing under the water, will always be an endless reel in my mind.

I sit down beside her and we both take off our shoes and dip our feet in the water. I lean back on my hands, looking up at the starry sky. I don’t know if there’s anyone up there listening right now, but I could use some encouragement.

I let out a long, unsteady breath. “My grandfather died a couple of weeks before the incident with Ethan. It was a shock. He was healthy for his age—never missed a doctor’s appointment, ate healthy, was emotionally sound pretty active. We were at the diner and he was taking a family’s order. I can still hear his belly laugh as he argued with the teenage daughter about brussels sprouts tasting good—he was doing his damnedest to convince her that they’d turn her hair curly, even though it wasn’t true. Then . . .” I stop. Max scoots closer and rests her head against me. Her touch slowly calms my growing dread from recalling the memory. “He had a heart attack.”

I squeeze my eyes tight. He had a coffee pot in his hand and a small stack of menus in the other. The menus flew everywhere, and the coffee pot hit the floor with a crash that seemed to echo forever in the hushed diner.

“I just stood there,” I continue, feeling angry at myself. “It was such a massive heart attack, there was nothing I could have done and I know that . . . but, Max, I couldn’t even go to them. I should have held his hand or told him I loved him. Grams wasn’t there and he needed me and what did I do? Nothing. He was the man who raised me and loved me as a son . . .”

“That helpless feeling; I understand it too well,” Max tells me reassuringly. She places a soft kiss against my arm. “But I can also say with one hundred percent certainty that your grandpa knew you loved him.”

“Sometimes I worry he didn’t. I could be real shitty, you know? Especially when I was a teenager. I was so hung up on losing my mom and not having a dad that I just . . . I took it out on everyone who loved me—Grams, Grandpa, Erin.”

“The fact they loved you despite the way you treated them shows you weren’t as bad as you think.”

I wince. “You’re wrong about that. After Grandpa died, I got worse. I felt so ashamed, and I pitied myself. Fuck, if anyone would have said their grief was larger than mine, I would have fought them. I would get my hands on liquor and drink myself to sleep every night. It got so bad that Grams kicked me out of the house, and that’s when I started living on the boat. But I stayed close to the diner. I was three sheets to the wind one night when I heard the burglar alarm going off there.”

I close my eyes, the memory flooding my mind.

I stumbled toward the diner, tripping over my feet. There was a beat-up Chevy Impala parked lengthwise across several spaces, engine still running and door thrown open. Classic rock blared through the speakers, and I chuckled to myself, wondering if they used the music to pump themselves up to rob us. My brain flipped through all the songs I would use for courage . . .

The glass door was shattered, and I stepped through it. Weapon, I should have grabbed a weapon.

But who cared if I died? At least I’d have done one good thing if I stopped someone from robbing the diner.

Grams would.

The shards of glass that still hung in the doorframe broke open the skin on my arms. A man was behind the register, a hammer raised high above his head. Was that really the best option? He was wearing a thin, holey hoodie that hung off his thin frame. His eyes were wide and deranged. The diner was dark, but they glinted in the light from the street.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, trying to sound menacing. But I sounded drunk even to my own ears.

The man stood completely still for one . . . two . . . three seconds, then started to run. Before he could pass me, I tackled him to the ground. He fought me, kicking and yelling obscenities. I managed to get a punch in that was so hard it shocked him for a moment. He went slack.

My drunk brain tried to come up with a way to keep him here until the police arrived, but then I saw his face. My face, but aged and gaunt.

“Dad?” I managed, stumbling to my feet. My back hit a table and I grasped at it, suddenly sober. My dad was in and out of my life, but that was the first time I’d seen him in years. The last time was when he told Grandpa he was homeless and begged him for the boat. “What are you doing?”

“Getting what I’m owed,” he sputtered, standing.

My eyes narrowed. “What you’re owed?”

“My inheritance,” he declared, throwing up his arms as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stomped back toward the register. “Where’d my fucking hammer go?”

“Grams is still alive,” I said dumbly.

He found his hammer and raised it high. Whack! “Then I’ll get more when she’s dead.”

What the fuck? “They’re your parents.”

“Yeah, and? What did they ever do for me?” Another blow of the hammer. The alarm continued to blare above us. The police would be there soon, and he didn’t even seem to care. But then again, he’d done shit like this before, and Grams never pressed charges, even when Grandpa wanted her to.

“They raised your son,” I said through gritted teeth.

He shrugs.

“You’re high out of your fucking mind right now,” I muttered.

He stopped and pinned me with a glare. “And you’re not drunk off your ass?” he countered. “Looks like you take after your old man.”

---