Page 19 of The Weight of Your Wishes

“Get the fuck out of my bar, and do not ever come back. You’re banned.” I try my best to keep my tone even.

He sputters, stumbling out of his stool. It falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and that works him up even more. Good. The sad sack of shit should be embarrassed.

“I don’t want to come back anyway. This place was better before Judd died. Ever since you’ve taken over, it’s infested with faggots.”

And that is the last straw. I speed around the bar and grab him by the throat. His eyes bulge as he attempts to peel my hand away. I grit my teeth so hard that they may crack and slam him back against a booth. His head smacks with a loudcrackagainst the table. My hand constricts around his throat even harder now that I have more leverage.

“That’s my fucking family you’re talking about,” I snarl. “Where’s your family at, huh?” I slam his head against the wood once more. “Oh, that’s right. They left you because you’re nothing but a hate-filled drunk,” I seethe. My calm composure is long gone by now. I watch as his eyes turn frantic, his dirty nails scratching at my forearms.

Arms wrap around my middle, pulling me back. “Come on, Uncle Grant. It’s okay. Just let him leave,” Hendrix whispers shakily. I don’t budge; blood thunders in my ears.

Sky grabs at my shoulder roughly. “Let go of him. He’s not worth a night in jail.”

Fuck. That’s the last thing I need when I’m trying to set a positive example for Hendrix. I’m no good at anything. I don’t know why Cynthia thought this was a good idea in the first place.

I let go, immediately wiping my sweat-slicked hand against my jeans in disgust. He slides down the table onto the floor at my feet, coughing and rubbing at his reddened throat.

“The fuck are you still doing here?” Sky thunders behind me. Rick shoots them a venomous look before drawing himself up and storming out. He kicks the overturned barstool on his way, and it takes everything in me not to go after him again.

I push my hair back from my eyes and find Hendrix staring at me wide-eyed, mouth agape. The rest of the patrons look about the same, and a lead weight drops in my gut. I rub at my temples. “We’re closing a little early tonight. Get squared away with Sky,” I announce, my voice gruff. “I won’t tolerate that kind of shit in my bar. Good night.” And I stalk away, back into my office, feeling ridiculous.

Great fucking speech, Grant.

I kick the heavy wooden door, panting, and then I slam my boot into it once more. “Fuck!” I yell into the empty room.

He shouldn’t have brought up Judd; he didn’t even know him—not like I did. Judd wouldn’t have tolerated this either—he was the kindest, wisest man I ever knew, all the way until the day he died. I strive every day to uphold his legacy in this bar, doing only the things I know he’d be okay with, yet I know I could never be as good at it as he was. I could never give someone what he gave me.

He was like a father figure to me; this place was my home. He took me in when I was at my lowest, gave me a job here, and a whole lot of chances. Treated me like family in a way that I’d never experienced before. No matter how much I messed up, no matter how shit I was at talking to customers, he never talked down to me. When I couldn’t afford the gas to make it to work, he’d pick me up.

But he was old by the time I met him, and his health was declining. He couldn’t juggle everything anymore. So, I worked overtime, spent all my free time here helping in any way I could, even off the clock.

He made me the manager of the bar, and I took it more seriously than anything I’d ever done before. I grew distant from Cynthia and Hendrix, from my mom. A sharp ache stabs through my chest. After all these years—all these sacrifices—this drunk idiot has the nerve to come in here and act like he knows any fucking thing about me or Judd or this place.

There aren’t too many people who’ve stuck by me in life. Hendrix, Sky, and Judd are pretty much it. Even Cynthia left me at one point. So, I can’t help but lose it. I simply can’t.

A soft knock rips me from my thoughts. The door creeps open slowly, and Hendrix slides inside. “Everyone is gone. Sky left too after we closed everything down for the night.”

I snatch my keys up from my desk and reach past his shoulder to open the door. He flinches, almost imperceptibly. It’s not surprising considering he’s never seen me like this. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, and move past him. He walks hurriedly behind me to match my pace.

“What? Why would you be sorry? That prick got what he fucking deserved.”

“Language.” I swing open the front door, ushering him out. I’m ready to get home and forget this day ever happened.

He plants his feet and crosses his arms over his chest, mouth set in a hard line. “I told you earlier; I’m not a kid anymore.”

I level him with a hard look. “It doesn’t matter how old you are, you’re more intelligent than that. New rule: no cursing.”

His mouth flops open in astonishment. My eyes track over him, with only the light of a single lamp post to see. He really isn’t a kid anymore; it’s true. But I can’t help but feel that he’s just a boy. Despite him coming all the way up to my shoulders now, the defined muscle throughout his arms and legs, the angular cut of his jaw, he’ll always be my little Hendrix—my little boy with big green eyes and a shy smile.

Warmth radiates from deep in my chest, and I’m suddenly overcome with it. I grab him, pull him into my chest, and bury my nose in his hair. He lets out a surprised yelp but wraps his arms around me, too. His breath warms the skin beneath my shirt, and it makes me want to squeeze him tighter—crush him to me and protect him from all the pieces of shit in the world who will give him a hard time for who he is.

“I know you’re not a kid anymore. You’ve grown into a man, and I have a hard time acknowledging that I missed so much of it. Cut me some slack, okay? You were just a boy the last time I really knew you.”

He sighs and nods against my chest before slowly pulling away. He doesn’t meet my eyes, just continues walking ahead of me.

I’ve never been an especially hands-on person. The act of showing physical affection seemed so alien to me until he was born. At first, when he was just a newborn, there was no choice but to hold him, rock him, and kiss his little fuzzy head to put him to sleep. Then, as a toddler, he was more independent, but when he’d fall or get upset, he sought comfort. So, I’d squeeze him to my chest. It wasn’t until he started middle school that he seemed to stop needing that. He was his own person then, and I guessed he didn’t want to be seen as a kid anymore. I hadn’t fussed over it much at the time because I was so consumed by the stress in my own life—the passing of my dad, the choice to move back home. But now he seems to need comfort more than ever, yet he’s hesitant—almost scared. My brow furrows as I try to parse that out.

When he asked to lay in my lap last night, my heart lurched in my chest. He looked so nervous, picking at his lip with two fingers, his eyes big and round and pleading. For only a second, I thought it wasn’t entirely appropriate at his age, but it didn’t take much to shut that thought down. I was around his age when my whole life went to shit, and it might’ve helped had I had someone's lap to rest in—someone to thread their fingers through my hair. I don’t think there’s an age limit to that.

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