Page 57 of Tormented Bastard
“You live wherever you want and by your own rules. You’re free. You can go wherever and never worry about a thing.” I held up a finger, and I might have swayed slightly on my stool. “And you’re a fucking model. I mean, seriously?”
Chance leaned back and gave me the side eye. I think. In my inebriated state, it was a little hard to tell what he was doing. “Outside of the wife and kids, you just described your own life. A lot of guys would give their left and right nuts to be sitting where you are right now.”
“You mean a lonely drunk guy in a tiny bar on a small island?”
He rolled his eyes at me. “No, dumbass. I mean,”—he leaned forward on the bar and dropped his voice like telling me a secret—“you’re a baseball legend. You’ve broken long standing records. You have multiple houses, cars, every toy known to man.”
I scoffed. “Those are just things.”
“True, but what about all the good you do here? You made so much money in your career that you go around donating money to repair baseball fields all over the state. You’ve paid for the high school baseball team to get new uniforms. You give your time. People around here love your grumpy ass.”
“They wouldn’t if they knew me.”
Chance’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean if they knew you?”
I drained the last of my beer and signaled for another one. Al pursed his lips but popped the top off another amber bottle. “Last one, Hanover.”
I waved him away. I pointed at Al’s retreating back with my thumb. “Think Al loves me?”
Chance chuckled. “Maybe not this very moment, but it’s only because you’re being a dick on purpose.” He stared at me as though waiting for me to spill my guts. When a few moments passed and I didn’t say anything, he said, “So what do you mean, if they knew you?”
I sighed and rubbed my hands down my face. “Look, I’m toxic, okay? When I was fourteen, my mother died. Want to know how?”
“How?”
“From the flu. She had an undiagnosed rare lung condition. Her body couldn’t recover from the virus.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Guess who gave it to her?” I asked, ignoring his platitudes, and pointed to myself. “This punk, right here.” I raised my voice and stood in a theatrical way. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Chase ‘Hollywood Golden Boy’ Hanover, selfish bastard extraordinaire, decided to go to a party I wasn’t supposed to go to. And guess what parting gift I left with that night?” I pointed at Chance. “Would you like to guess, my friend?”
I cupped my ear like I was waiting to hear his response, but he just stared at me with a bland look. I took that as permission to move on and plowed ahead. “Ding, ding! That’s right. The flu! And she did what mothers are supposed to do and took care of me. And then want to know what we did a couple of weeks later? We buried her.”
I swayed on my feet until I sat with a thump on the stool. Bitterness stung my tongue and I stopped talking, unable to swallow around the knot in my throat. I could still hear my father yelling at me, accusing me of being a selfish little bastard who only thought of himself.
I cleared my throat, trying to continue. But I had no more theatrics for this part of the story. “My father accused me of getting her sick and killing her. He never looked at me the same after that.” I scoffed. “Could be because he stayed drunk after that until he died. He lived just long enough for my little brother to graduate high school. Then when little bro went off to the military, dad drank himself to the grave.”
“That’s a shitty deal, mate. And I understand shitty deals.”
I waved a hand, not wanting the pity. It’s why I never told anyone my story. “What’s done is done.”
Chance sipped his soda. “That’s true.” He shifted on the stool. “But do you really believe you killed your mum? If she had this rare condition, she could have died from it some other way. And who says it was you who gave her the flu?”
I shook my head, unable to follow his line of reasoning. “What do you mean?”
“Did she not ever leave the house?”
My brows furrowed. “Of course she did. She volunteered all over town, with the kids, in the hospital.”
“And you think you’re the only way she could have gotten sick?” Chance asked.
“I—” My mouth snapped shut. My father had always told me it was me who made her sick. Me who killed her. That’s the way it happened. Right? It had to be. I mean, my father was never that close to my brother and me, leaving most everything about dealing with the kids to her. Always yelling at us for stupid little shit.
But why would he tell me I was the cause of killing my mother? I rubbed my hands over my head and down my face. I’d never know the answer to that. Whatever his reasoning was, it died with him years ago.
Chance sighed. “Why do I feel like that’s not the only thing?”
“Because it’s not. There was Eden. I chose my baseball career over her. She needed me when her mother was sick. And I left.” I threw my hands up in the air. “Just left. Got mad at her for staying behind. I mean, what kind of prick does that?”
