Page 91 of The Heartstrings of Harry
Careful not to wake Dean, I slid out from under his weight, eased him down onto the pillow, tucked the blanket around him. He didn’t stir.
I crossed the room as quietly as I could and inched the door open.
There, standing in the shadows of the shed, was Andy.
His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his eyes no longer angry but soft.
“Figured I might find you here,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened. I stepped outside, closing the door most of the way behind me to keep the house quiet.
“He’s asleep,” I told him, voice low. “Out cold. He’s… safe.”
Andy nodded slowly, eyes down, scuffing the toe of his boot against the ground like he didn’t quite know where to start.
“I ain’t here to fight,” he muttered after a moment.
I exhaled hard, leaning back against the doorframe, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders.
Andy looked up, his eyes tired but clearer now. “Can we… talk? Back at the house?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
I glanced back inside one more time—Dean still sound asleep, peaceful at last—then pulled the door shut behind me and followed Andy up to the house.
* * *
We sat across from each other at Andy’s poker table. Andy slid a bottle of beer across to me, twisted the cap off his own, and leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms like he was holding himself steady.
The silence sat heavy between us for a while.
Finally, Andy let out a slow breath and looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry about the fight. The punch. For all of it.”
I nodded, fingers wrapped around the cool neck of the bottle. “Yeah… well. I probably deserved it.”
Andy gave a small, sad smile. “You didn’t. I was just… confused. Shocked. Hell, it was the last thing I ever expected. But that’s no excuse for lashing out like I did. I always promised myself I’d never turn out like my father. I vowed never to hit anyone like my dad hit me. I wanted to be a better man than that. I wanted to be the best father I could possibly be. Will you forgive me?”
“Andy, of course.” I leaned forward, my eyes fixed on his. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. The whole thing’s been a surprise to me and Dean too.” I gave him a soft smile, shrugged. “A wonderful surprise. But yeah… I should’ve told you how I felt. I just didn’t know how.”
Andy nodded slowly, tapping his bottle against the table once, twice, like he was feeling out the right words.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “Dean… he’s stressed, Andy. Overworked. The city, the scene, the noise—it’s too much for him sometimes. LA hasn’t been good for him.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “But he’s finding his way. He’s figuring out what he wants, what makes him happy.”
I stopped there.
Because there were some things Andy didn’t need to know.
There were thingsnobodyneeded to know.
I wasn’t going to tell him about the letters. About the truth of the so-called stalker. That wasn’t my story to tell. And it wasn’t something Andy needed on his shoulders. He’d worry himself sick.
So I kept it locked down, tucked away, right where it belonged.
Andy took a long drink, wiped his mouth, then met my eyes again.
“I gotta tell you,” he said. “When I saw you out there tonight, running into all that chaos… the way you pushed through that crowd, the way you fought to get to him…” He shook his head slowly. “I realized then… you really do love my boy.”
