Page 74 of Offside Bride

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Siobhan says. “So, we’re in for a long night. I’ll order some pizza for dinner.”

“Actually,” Maggie interjects, “I was hoping to take you out to a nice restaurant tonight. My treat.”

Siobhan shakes her head. “No, you’re my guest. I can’t let you pay. Besides, we’d have to invite one of my new boyfriends along.”

“Maybe it’s best to stay in,” I suggest, not loving this idea. “I’m not exactly confident in your, uh, ‘boyfriends’ out there.”

Siobhan waves off my concern. “It’s safe to go out, but I don’t want you to pay for dinner, Sawyer, because you paid for everything while I was visiting Toronto.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Maggie says proudly. “Sawyer’s not going to pay for it. I am. Book sales are soaring right now. I guess I just needed to give it some time.”

Siobhan looks at me, narrowing her eyes. “Book sales, huh?”

“You were right,” Maggie tells me, beaming. “Things did work out.”

The prison visiting area smells like industrial cleaner and desperation. Fluorescent lights buzz incessantly overhead, casting a sickly glow on the scuffed and worn linoleum floor. It reminds me of a hospital but somehow even more depressing.

Plastic chairs scrape against the ground, the sound grating on my nerves as visitors shift nervously in their seats, and the surprising scent of microwave popcorn fills the air.

There’s a constant hum of hushed conversations, occasionally punctuated by the sharp bark of a guard or the jarring metallic clang of a heavy door.

My stomach churns with anxiety, and I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t belong here. But I do. This is my reality now.

And then I see him.

The man I thought I knew. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed, and his eyes gleam with that familiar mix of charm and arrogance. He’s thinner now, his once-imposing frame diminished by prison food and confinement. But there’s still an unmistakable air of authority about him, like he’s holding court rather than serving time.

I feel like I’m looking in a fun house mirror—I see bits of myself reflected back, but everything’s distorted, warped. My chest tightens, a cocktail of anger and grief threatening to choke me. That cocky grin I inherited is plastered across his face ashe approaches. For a split second, I’m that little kid again, desperate for his approval. But then reality crashes back, and I remember why we’re here. This isn’t a father-son reunion. This is a reckoning.

I don’t want to be here. I want to turn around, walk out, and pretend this man never existed. But Siobhan’s safety, Maggie’s well-being, even that damn bird—they’re all on the line. I need answers, even if I have to pry them from his lying mouth.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to approach. The smell of cheap soap and stale sweat grows stronger with each step. Dad’s eyes never leave mine, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s the same look he’d give me before he’d leave Tennessee for Boston, like he knows something I don’t.

“Hello, son,’ he says as he takes a seat. His voice is a mixture of loose gravel and stale breath. “It’s good to see ya.”

I sit, clenching my fists under the table, willing myself to stay calm. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Dad. We need to talk.”

Dad leans back in his chair as if he was at a neighborhood barbeque and not in the slammer. “Oh? And what exactly do you wanna talk about?”

“They came to my house, Dad.”

“Who came to ya house? Ya need to be more specific than that.”

I lean in, hissing under my breath. “The Italians. Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about that.”

He shrugs.

“They took my wife’s bird,” I say, seething.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Your wife? I’ve been in the can for all of eight months and you got married?”

I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay calm. “Cut the crap, Dad.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but something flickers in his eyes. “Always so serious. You get that from your mothah, you know.”

“I want answers,” I growl. “I want to know what you stole, where it is, and how to get it back before they decide to go after Siobhan next.”

“Shhh.” He leans forward, whispering in his thick Bostonian accent, “Listen, Sawyah, you gotta trust me on this one. I’ve got everything undah control.”

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