Page 86 of Deviant

“I wouldn’t recommend badmouthing your brother-in-law in front of others, deputy. You know as well as I do that Warren doesn’t take insults lightly,” my father warns, alerting us to his presence.

He keeps his attention solely on Bobby, refusing to even look at me once.

“If you can’t forgive your family for a little insult or two, who can you forgive?” Bobby winks at me, completely unaware that my father also doesn’t take insults lightly.

“Some things are harder to forgive than others, I guess,” I reply, the weight of my guilt crushing me.

“Well put.” My father agrees, in that emotionless, even tone of his that I’ve come to detest. “What are you doing here, Rowen? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Rosie gave me the rest of the week off since the Harvest Festival is right around the corner,” I reply, failing to disclose that I haven’t been to work in days, pretending to be sick. “So, I thought I’d surprise you and bring you lunch. Maybe we could go outside and have a picnic, just like old times.”

“I’m busy,” is his curt reply.

“Oh, come on, sheriff. No one’s too busy to eat. Besides, Rowen came all this way to spend quality time with her dad. The least you could do is oblige her,” Bobby defends, thinking he’s helping me out.

He’s not.

All he’s doing is pushing my father into a corner.

Who knows how he’ll react?

Maybe he’ll tell the whole world right here and now what I’ve done.

I’m not the only one who has been living with this infernal guilt.

I can see it in his eyes how it’s been eating him alive, too.

You could hear a pin drop as my father goes eerily quiet while considering his options.

“The Harvest Festival is just a few days away, Hank. Who knows if you’ll get a chance to eat with your daughter again,” I hear Bobby whisper in his ear.

“Fine,” my father reluctantly concedes. “But I can only spare half an hour. I’ve got too much work to do to mess about.”

“Half an hour works,” I reply joyfully as naive hope starts to spread its wings inside me.

Although I can feel my father’s resentment coming off of him in waves as we walk out of the station, I try not to let it get to me.

“I thought maybe we could have the picnic at the gazebo behind city hall like we used to. What do you think?”

When he grunts in reply, I take it as a confirmation that he isn’t totally opposed to the idea.

After Mom died, there was a time when he would take me out of school just so he could keep an eye on me while he worked. It never bothered me since I preferred spending time with him rather than attending a school where everyone knew my mother better than I did.

What I remember most about that time was how he always packed us a picnic basket. On his lunch break, we would go to the small park just behind the town hall and step into the little gazebo that stands at the very heart of the park. We used to pretend we were eating a feast made for kings and queens instead of the simple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he prepared earlier that morning.

He made even the most mundane things cause for celebration. And I miss that. Hopefully, he does, too.

We walk in complete silence through the small park and step into the little gazebo that stands at the very heart of it.

In the summer, this park is usually bustling with teenagers sunbathing, reading, or throwing frisbees while laughter and music echo through the air. But they aren’t the only ones who enjoy this park. Parents set colorful blankets under the shade of sprawling trees while their children chase after butterflies, creating a vibrant tapestry of life and joy, bringing this cozy, green space alive under the sun’s warm embrace. But as soon as autumn hits, this park becomes deserted, too cold and depressing for any type of whimsical activity.

I place the picnic basket on the stone table and start to unpack all my father’s favorite foods and treats. I take out all the items Dr. Mitchell advised him to remove from his diet due to his cholesterol—ribs, hot wings, potato salad, mac and cheese, and for dessert, lemon meringue pie.

“What is this?” he asks after I’ve set the table.

“What do you mean? It’s lunch.”

“Whatever this is,” he points an accusing finger to the table, “is not just lunch.”

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