Page 12 of Losing his Daddy

A facility funded by Clancy’s old friend Rhett and his husband Ean Garner. Yeah, as intheEan Garner, mega movie star and LGBTQ+ activist. Though, I don’t think that’s his last name anymore since they’re married. I’m not sure.

Too much time disappeared. I lost time while being wrapped up in Clancy and our secret relationship. Then I lost more time when he got sick, and I worked to keep everything together. I lost the most time after he passed, and I sunk into the bottle.

The one thing I do remember is when it all came to light. I’d never known such shame as when my friends confronted me about my drinking.

I was sitting alonein the bunkhouse, my mind running over numbers from earlier in the day. I felt like something was off. It could have been a slight error, or I could be misremembering. I didn’t know. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have stood to go check.

What I really needed was a strong drink. Something with just enough kick to let me get some sleep in my own bed for once. I could only sneak out to the marker once or twice a week. Any more would make the others suspicious.

The door opened, revealing a somber-looking Atticus. He marched inside. Behind him was the rest of the crew. Like literally all of them.

"What's going on?" I asked hesitantly. “Something happen?"

They all took their seats as if this was choreographed. I couldn’t imagine what in the world they needed to tell me that couldn’t be handled in a less awkward manner.

Once everyone was seated, Atticus stood back up and took off to the kitchen. When he came back, he held a box full of glass bottles with a well-known label on the side. I felt the color drain from my face. Atticus didn’t hesitate to step away to retrieve another box. This one had a different brand, though the item itself was the same.

How? How had they found this?

And why was I so fucking stupid that I kept them all?

“It’s not…” I started.

Sean spoke up when I couldn’t continue. “But it is, Gerald. What do you remember from last night?"

Last night? What the hell happened last night?

I shook my head as I pondered over the vague memories. "You and I were talking. I'd had a bit to drink, and you said I should sleep in. Told me not to worry about it."

Sean shook his head. "That's not exactly what happened. You'd been drinking a lot and got behind the wheel."

"No. That's not possible. I wouldn't... I didn't..."I took count of everyone in the room. They all had to be safe. I couldn’t live with myself if I’d hurt anyone.

"Sean and I pulled you out of that truck and put you to bed in your room. A few hours later, you were stumbling around with more alcohol in your system. You don't remember any of that?"

Though Atticus’s voice was gentle, I felt each word like a strike. I didn’t want to continue this conversation. It all hurt too much.

But at the same time, I needed answers. I’d never done anything like this. I could hold my liquor. I wasn’t some lightweight.

It made no sense I’d get behind the wheel though. That was never part of the routine.

Drink until the numbness settled. Climb into bed. Sleep it off. Repeat the next evening. Those were the steps of my days. Not whatever this was.

"It's all a blur. None of that sounds familiar. I didn't think I had a problem. I just... Sometimes I can't sleep."

"How often is sometimes?" Atticus asked.

"A few times a week. But even when I do sleep, I wake up to nightmares."

"Nightmares about my pops?"

I couldn’t hold back the flinch that hearing his name brought out. I could see some of the men staring at the reaction in shock. Their features distorted as if they were in pain watching me suffer. I’d become the live action piece of art that evoked tears and pain, my heartache clear to all.

"I can't talk about him, Atticus. I don't have the strength. Not now.” I’d have begged him for anything in that single moment so long as he didn’t say his father’s name.

While there were still times the men talked about him, his name had left our regular vocabulary. It was ‘pops’ or ‘the late Mr. Coleman’, both of which I could handle.

His name wasn’t.

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