Page 50 of Someone You Deserve

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Astrid.”

When I hang up the call, a scream pierces the air. Heart racing, I rush inside to find the sledgehammer on the ground and Bentley attacking the wall with his bare hands, ripping at the broken pieces of drywall. I run over and grab him by his shoulders, yanking him back before he hurts himself.

“What the hell, Bentley?” I shout and take a step back, chest heaving.

Red-faced with tears welling in his eyes, Bentley yanks the hard hat off and throws it to the ground. Clenching his fists at his sides, he shouts, “It’s not fair!”

Trying to steady my breathing, I soften my tone. “What’s not fair, buddy?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just not fair!”

“What’s going on, Bentley? What did that kid do?”

“He deserved to be punched. He deserved a lot more for what he said!”

I close the distance between us and pull him into my chest. “What did he say, Bentley? You can talk to me.”

He buries his face in my shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. “He said my dad isn’t here because he couldn’t stand to have me as a son!” he shouts into my chest and then the tears flow freely.

I'm holding him close as my body vibrates with anger. “What the fuck?”

He sobs uncontrollably and all I can do is rub his back while I contemplate how to get revenge on an eleven-year-old boy. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“It’s not okay!” Bentley yells.

“I know, buddy. I know it sucks.”

“Everyone else has a dad but me,” he cries on a broken whimper. He wipes under his nose with the back of his hand and looks up at me. “And some days I can barely remember him. I feel like I’ve already forgotten who he is…”

Is this what a broken heart feels like? The pain of a child, so deep and raw that you can’t soothe it away. Even though every fiber of your being aches to protect them from this hurt.

“I know that feeling,” I finally say, trying to comfort him but not sure if it will work.

His head pops up and he stares at me through the mess on his face. “What?”

“My dad isn’t here anymore either.”

Bentley nods once. “Oh yeah.”

“Granted, he was in my life much longer than yours was, but even now I’m afraid of forgetting him.” Memories slam into me as we sit there. “I can’t hear his laugh anymore, or the sound of his shoes on the hardwood when he’d walk through the house. But his presence—that will always live on in here.” I pound a fist on my chest, warring with my own emotions. “Tell me what you remember about him.”

Bentley wipes under his nose. “I remember when he coached my soccer team when I was five.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “I was there. He would scream louder than your mom sometimes. He loved watching you play when he could, Bentley. We talked about it all the time.”

“You played soccer together, didn’t you?”

“We did. Your dad and I were an unbeatable team on and off the field.” The pang of loss hits my chest hard.

Bentley sniffles. “I remember that he always put his bag on the floor by the door when he’d get home from the base.”

I nod. “What else?”

Bentley wipes his nose on his sleeve again. “I remember trying to walk in his boots. I was really little, but I swear I can still see him holding my hands as he helped me walk.”

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