Page 109 of What's Left of Us

There’s a beat where he contemplates being honest but must decide it’s worth it. “When things started going downhill with Georgia, I could tell you were fighting an uphill battle. You started spending a lot more time here than you did at home. Your mother would comment on it every time you left, but I told her she needed to butt out and let you two figure things out for yourselves. I hoped you two could work past it, but in the end, I wanted you to be happy. It was starting to seem like you had a better opportunity to get that if you started fresh.”

It’s the most he’s ever said about my relationship with Georgia. Mom and Hannah have actively spoken their opinions, especially when I least wanted them. But Dad has kept it to himself, not adding to the chaos.

“I’m not going to lie, son. Watching you hold on to something that hasn’t been good for you for a long time has been hard, but I’ve bitten my tongue. You joke around with everybody, but it never seemed like your smile reached your eyes.” I frown at the words he speaks so casually. “Since you started going to therapy, I can see the faintest version of the old you coming back. It’s in the way you smile. How often you’re coming around. Not just to help your useless old man or be distracted from your issues, but because youwantto be here. So whatever you’re unloading during those sessions must be working.”

My eyes go back down to my drink. I always thought I hid my emotions well. It’s how you’re trained in the military. If people know your weaknesses, they can go after them. So you bury whatever you’re feeling to stay safe.

You can’t save everybody.

Those parting words that the good doctor gave me still echo in my mind.

“She’s…helped,” I admit, not willing to offer the details of how much I’ve actually talked. I never thought I’d tell anybody the story of Georgia and me. I figured I’d keep it locked away in the vaults of my mind and take it with me to the grave.

But that became heavier and heavier to hold as our relationship started falling apart. I don’t know if it’s Theresa Castro that’s lifted some of that weight or my conscience finally willing to let some of it go.

“Good,” my father says. “I’m glad.”

That’s all he says.

He doesn’t press for more or ask what we’ve spoken about. He won’t. And I won’t offer him the tale of my life’s woes and the first girl I truly loved.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he hides a wavering smile before saying, “Your mother told me to mention that Opal is single.”

I groan. “Don’t get her started.”

He chuckles. “I’m just the messenger.”

We don’t bring up Georgia, work, or his neighbor’s daughter the rest of the time we sit together.

I should tell him that I’m going to see Jakob Volley in a few days—that I may be ending a huge chapter in my life. Maybe then he’ll see that I’m trying to move on. Or maybe he’ll worry like Marissa is, and I don’t want to do that to him.

So, I don’t tell him about Volley.

The less he knows, the better.

*

Dickers stares atthe twenty-dollar bill I’m extending to him as we wait for the bus that takes people to and from Rikers Island. “You should go get yourself some breakfast.”

He nervously scratches the column of his throat, looking between me and the money. “I’m supposed to come with you,” he reminds me, looking around at the others waiting to go see loved ones.

I pull out another twenty dollars from my wallet, take his hand, and set the two bills down in his palm. Wrapping his fingers around them, I say, “You don’t want to be here. I can see it in your eyes. And I don’t blame you. The people at Rikers are no joke. Don’t subject yourself to it. Take the money, go to that diner we saw on the way here, and I’ll call you when I’m done. Nobody has to know.”

It’s obvious he’s contemplating the offer, telling himself all the reasons why he should come. He’s a rule follower, and I respect that. Because he’s new, he doesn’t want to go behind anybody’s back. But he also doesn’t want to be here with me. It makes him uncomfortable. Ever since I picked him up at his place, he’s fidgeted with his hands and struggled to make small talk.

“Why me?” he finally asks.

“Because you could have told somebody about what Welsh said, but you didn’t,” I answer.

He reminds me of Conklin. Matt would have liked him. Maybe even made a dumb joke about him being his long-lost brother or something because of how much they act alike.

I’ve learned to be skeptical of whom to trust in life, but I never second-guessed the trust I had in Conklin, and my gut is telling me I can trust Dickers too.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” is all he says.

“I know.” I pull back my hand and tuck my wallet back into my pocket. “Look, I won’t stop you if you want to come with me. If that’s what you think is right, get on the bus. But I can handle Volley. I’d rather not involve you any more than I already have anyway.”

He’s on overtime right now since he took time off to be here. When I asked him to tag along, he didn’t question it. He might have wanted to, but he agreed, nonetheless. I appreciate his willingness, but I don’t want him in that room with me hearing more than he needs to.

---