Page 74 of Imperfect Player

Making my way over to the man sitting on the bench, eyes closed, hat low on his head, I kick his leg.

He jolts.

“Ethan.”

He says my name enthusiastically, a smile on his face.

Fuck. Thurston wasn’t kidding about the resemblance. It’s like looking in a goddamn mirror.

“What do you want?”

I bark out the question. My voice is filled with all the anger that I’ve been holding in all these years.

“Look at you,” he says, as though he’s almost in awe of me.

“Money? Is that what you’re looking for? How much? What will it take for you to go away?”

The man shakes his head. My father shakes his head.

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then what?”

“Can we sit? Talk?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“I know I don’t deserve your time.”

“Damn right you don’t. I’m not worth it, remember?”

His eyes soften, his head hangs. “I was a kid. A stupid—”

“No. I was a kid. A kid whose parents didn’t want him. Told him that he wasn’t worth it.”

He nods, acknowledging the truth in my words.

“You’re right. This isn’t about me though.”

I’m not sure why I bother, but I ask the question that he leaves before me. “Then what is it about?”

He extends a photo to me.

“Your brother. Ben.”

I take the photo and stare at it. The boy in it could have been me twenty years ago.

“My . . . what?”

“Your brother, Ethan.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a brother,” I tell him. “I don’t have parents. Or a family. You made goddamn sure of that. So you can take your words, your picture, your bullshit, and fucking leave.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly. I just don’t care.”

They never gave a damn about me. Why the fuck should I give a shit about some kid I don’t even know?

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