Page 51 of The Evening Wolves

“Because I’m already freaking the fuck out that any minute now, Ramona is going to call and tell us they’re taking Colt. How about that?”

“They’re not going to take him. Even if I get convicted, they won’t take him. You’re a fine, upstanding citizen. They’ll let him stay with you.”

“Then how about because he shouldn’t have to leave school because of some jackass kids. Do you have any idea how hard transitions are for him? He can’t just pick up and start over, John. It’s taken a lot of work for him to put down roots here. In a way, it’s a miracle, because he’s thriving. He has friends. He’s doing well in school. He has a boyfriend.”

“Thriving? That’s what you call it? Did you notice he can’t stand up straight? Did you think about why that might be? What about his hand, Ree, did you notice that?”

The magnitude of what John seemed to be suggesting went beyond what Emery felt capable of handling. It lurked at the edge of words, something he wasn’t quite ready to say to himself. And, instead—like a coward—he found himself grappling for something he could deal with. “Your hand—”

When Emery reached for John’s hand, though, John moved it away. “I’m fine. I know how to throw a punch, thanks. Unlike our son.” With what seemed like an effort, he tamped down the heat in his voice. “I do not want Colt going to that school anymore. It’s not going to get better. In fact, it’s going to get worse. You know that trip he’s been begging to go on? The service trip to St. Louis? That’s a great idea. We’ll let him go, and when he gets back, we’ll tell him that we’re pulling him out of school until we figure out where to send him. It’s not like we have a ton of options, so we should start applying and interviewing as soon as we can.”

Emery stared at him, and John met his gaze.

“I honestly can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“It’s not that complicated, Ree.”

“You’re going to rip his life down to the studs—again, John—because of a few dumbasses. And, incidentally, in the process you’re going to teach him to run away from his problems.”

“So, what? You think he should stay, and we’ll let these kids torture him for the next year and a half? Fuck that, Ree. I’m not letting him go through that.”

Maybe it was the word torture. Maybe it was the way John cut his eyes to the side, and the red in his cheeks didn’t look like it was from the cold.

“I did it,” Emery said.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“You know what, John? I think it is.”

To Emery’s surprise, John’s lip trembled. But when he spoke, his voice had a buckled-down control. “Why the fuck would I keep that fucking shit, Ree? I hated that kid. I hated being that kid. I hated that fucking kid.” He shook his head, the way sometimes guys shook off a punch. “I will not let that happen to our son.”

“John, I understand—”

“You don’t, Ree. You really don’t. So do me a favor and don’t pretend that you do.”

Emery reached for John, but John took a step back and shook his head again. He tried to think of what to say, the right thing to say. It’s ok wasn’t the truth. It’ll be ok didn’t seem like solid ground either. He’s our son, and we can give him so much more than either of us had growing up came close. And so did We don’t have to let them win. But what Emery heard himself say with cool, measured finality was “We’re not pulling him out of school.”

“Yes, we are. And you want to know why, Ree? Because I wish they’d done it for you. Because if you’d been my child, I would have done it for you. I will not let it happen to Colt, do you understand me?”

“John—”

“No!” The word was wild, a shout, and it rang out in the stillness of the house. John looked feverish: cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

The creak of a joist made both of them glance at the opening to the living room. Jem stood there, arms folded, appraising them. “Everything ok?”

“Fine,” Emery said. “We need a minute.”

“No,” John said, “we don’t. And no, it isn’t.”

Before Emery could say anything, John stepped past him. A moment later, he was out in the garage, and then the door was rattling up, and the growl of the Mustang came.

As the sound of the Mustang faded, Emery realized with a distant clarity what he’d been trying to say. What the right thing had been to say.

I love you.

11

It felt like a long time before Emery could look at Jem. The blond man leaned in the opening, arms still folded. He wore a Mighty Ducks t-shirt, washed so many times the crossed hockey sticks were starting to flake away. The sweatpants had the words HARLEY-DAVIDSON running down one leg. On the other, a lightning bolt was striking a motorcycle.

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