I don't know that I've ever met anyone like her. I kiss her, partly because I want to get as many kisses in as we can today, and partly because she deserves a little more affection in her life. Selfless affection. I don't mean for the kiss to be anything more than a second or two, but we haven't been able to kiss like this since our first kiss. I'm instantly pulled into it and everything else fades away.
Until someone clears their throat behind us. We pull apart to see a nurse attempting to exit the doorway we're blocking. Sloan apologizes and then starts laughing as we rush down the hallway to Stephen's room.
She knocks on the door and then pushes it open. I follow her inside, immediately impressed with the facility. I expected more of a nursing home or hospital room setup, but these are more like miniature apartments. There's a small living area attached to a sleeping area and a kitchenette. I notice there's no stove or microwave though, which probably means he has to have all his meals prepared for him.
Sloan walks into the living area to greet her brother, but I wait in the entryway, not wanting to interrupt them.
Stephen is sitting on the couch, watching the television. He glances up at Sloan and I can immediately see the resemblance. They have the same hair color, same hair texture, same eyes.
But his face is expressionless. He turns back to the TV and my heart instantly aches for Sloan. The one person in this world she loves doesn't have the capacity to express his love in return. No wonder she seems so lonely. She's probably the loneliest person I've ever met.
"Stephen, there's someone I'd like you to meet," she says, pointing in my direction. "That's my friend Carter. We go to school together."
Stephen looks at me, but then looks back at the TV just as quick.
Sloan pats the couch next to her, requesting me to come sit by her. I walk over and sit down, watching her interact with him. She begins pulling things out of her purse. Nail clippers, paper, a pen, a soda. She talks to him the whole time, telling him about the drive over and giving him her thoughts on the new resident she noticed next door.
"You want ice?" she asks.
I glance at Stephen, but he gives no indication that he wants ice. Sloan points in the kitchen area. "Carter, will you make a glass of ice for him? And get the blue straw out of the top left-hand drawer?"
I nod and go to the kitchen to make his cup of ice. I notice she grabs a pen and starts writing something down. She slides the paper over to Stephen and he instantly looks at it, grabs the pen, and leans forward to write something in return.
He can read and write? She didn't mention that.
When I'm finished with the cup of ice, I walk back to the living room and hand it to her. She finishes writing something else and hands the paper back to Stephen, then pours his soda into the glass. As soon as she sticks the straw in it, Stephen grabs it out of her hand and begins drinking it. He hands her back the paper and she hands it to me. I read what she wrote first.
Books made out of jellybeans get really sticky when you wear furry gloves.
I read what Stephen wrote next. His writing isn't as legible as hers, but I can make out what it says.
Baskets of lizards on my head break the cotton in half for you.
I glance at Sloan and she shoots me a small smile. I recall our first day in class together when I saw her doing this for the first time. She said it was just a game she plays sometimes. I guess this is what she meant. She plays it on Sundays with Stephen.
"Can he read almost anything?" I ask her.
She shakes her head. "He doesn't really comprehend. I taught him how to read and write when we were younger, but stringing full thoughts together has never been something I've seen him do on paper. It's his favorite game to play."
I look over at Stephen. "Can I write something, Stephen?" I reach out for the pen and he hands it to me, but he still doesn't look at me. I press it to the paper.
Your sister is amazing and you're very lucky to have her.
I hand Sloan the paper and she reads it before handing it to Stephen. She blushes and nudges me in the shoulder, then passes the pen and paper off to him.
And that's what we do for the next ten pages. Stephen and Sloan write random words back and forth, and I just write down a bunch of compliments about Sloan.
Your sister has great hair. I especially love it when she curls it.
Did you know your sister cleans up after several men who don't know how to lift a damn finger? And no one has probably ever told her thank you. Thank you, Sloan.
Your sister's ring finger looks beautiful and bare today.
I like your sister. A lot.
After about an hour, a nurse comes in and interrupts the game to take Stephen to physical therapy.
"Is the social worker in today?" Sloan asks.
The nurse shakes her head. "Not on Sundays. But I'll leave a note in her box when he's finished with therapy so she'll know to contact you tomorrow."
Sloan tells her that would be great and then she walks over to give Stephen a hug. When she's finished with her goodbye, I'm honestly not sure what to do. I don't want to pretend I'm an expert at interacting with individuals like Stephen, but I also don't want to do something I shouldn't do.
"Does he shake hands?" I ask Sloan.
She shakes her head. "He doesn't really let anyone but me touch him." She slips her hand through mine.
"It was nice meeting you, Stephen," I say to him. Sloan grabs her purse and we begin to walk out of the room so the nurse can do what she needs to do to prepare him for therapy. When we're almost to the door, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find Stephen standing in front of me, eyes on the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels. He hands me the pen and a blank sheet of paper. I take it from him, not really knowing how to tell him we're leaving and we can't keep playing.
I glance at Sloan to see what she wants me to do, and I'm confused by her expression. Stephen walks back into the living room, away from us. I look down at the blank sheet of paper and pen.
"He wants you to come back," she whispers. When I glance up at her again, she's smiling, shaking her head back and forth. "I've never seen that happen before, Carter." She covers her mouth with her hand and lets out a mixture of what could be both a laugh and a cry. "He likes you."
I look back at Stephen and his back is to us now. When I look back at Sloan, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me, then leads me out of the room. I fold up the paper and slip it and the pen in my back pocket.
I don't know what I was expecting today, but it certainly wasn't that.
I'm glad I came, but now it's not only because of Sloan.
I remember this being a hell of a lot more fun last month.
I double down on the bet and run my hand through my hair, squeezing the back of my neck. I'm hungry. I look over at Kevin and Dalton who are engrossed in conversation with some bartender who looks more like a girl Jon would take behind the building than either of them would entertain.
The only reason why Jon probably isn't fucking her behind the building right now is because he left with two lot lizards from the truck stop next door. Probably took them to the men's room. Which surprises me that he was even able to do that with the way his face is puffed up like a fucking blueberry.
He should be back by now, though, because I'm pretty sure he can't last more than two minutes with a chick. There were two of them. That's only four minutes, but I haven't seen him in over an hour.
Where the hell is he?
I look around, and when I don't see him in the vicinity, I cash out my chips. I yell across the table--over the obnoxious fucking slot machine bells--and tell Dalton and Kevin I'm going to look for Jon. Dalton nods.
I make it to the other side of the casino without finding him. I turn back and walk past a blackjack table when my eyes fall on a guy slurring something to the dealer. "Every time I come to this goddamn casino, I see the same miserable motherfuckers hunched over these tables, handing over their hard-earned wages to you goddamn m
otherfuckers and you just keep taking. Taking, taking, taking."
The dealer scoops the chips out from in front of the guy. A man across the table says, "And nine times out of ten that miserable motherfucker is you."
I laugh and make eye contact with the man who just spoke.
I stop laughing.
He glances away from me without even a flash of recognition.
The guy doing the complaining pushes his stool away from the table and stands. He points at the guy I'm staring at and says, "You got lucky, Paul. That's all. Won't last."
I'm clenching my fists so hard, I'm drawing blood. I can feel it seeping out of my palm.
I didn't even have to hear his name confirmed to know it was him. A son doesn't forget his father.
No matter how easy it was for that father to forget his son.
I turn my back to him and wipe the blood from my hand onto the leg of my jeans. I pull my phone out and do a quick Google search. After a few minutes of scrolling through the results and glancing back and forth from him to my phone, I finally find what I'm looking for.
The motherfucker was paroled last year.
I slide my phone into my pocket and walk over to the empty seat across from him. I've never been this tense, but it isn't because I'm scared of what he'll do to me anymore. I'm tense because I'm scared of what I want to do to him. I lay down my bet and try not to make it obvious that I'm staring, but he isn't paying me any attention. He's focused on the dealer.
His hair is so thin, he might even be considered bald if it weren't for the last few strands he's pathetically holding on to. I run my hand through my hair. It feels as thick as it always has.
Maybe he lost his hair because of stress and it isn't hereditary. God I hope nothing about this man is hereditary; he looks like a fucking waste of space.
I remember my father being much taller. Much broader. Much more intimidating. I'm a little disappointed.
Actually, I'm a lot disappointed. I've always hated the motherfucker, but the memories I have of him made me think he was invincible. Which made me feel like maybe I got a little of that from him. But seeing how he's turned out really puts a fucking wrinkle in my pride.
"Hey, kid," he says, snapping his bony fingers. "You got a smoke?"
My eyes meet his and he's staring at me, trying to bum a cigarette off of his only fucking child, and he doesn't even recognize me. Not even a little bit.
"I don't fucking smoke, asshole."
He chuckles and holds up a hand, palm out. "Whoa, there, buddy. Bad day?"
He thinks that was me having an attitude? I turn a chip over in my fingers and lean forward. "You could say that."
He shakes his head and we're silent for the next round of bets. An older chick with tits more wrinkled than my old man's knuckles sidles up next to him and puts her arm around him. "I'm ready to go," she whines.
He sticks his elbow out to shove her off of him and says, "I'm not. I told you I'd find you when I'm ready."
She whines some more until he pulls a twenty out of his pocket and tells her to go play some penny slots. When she's gone, I nudge my head in her direction. "That your wife?"
He chuckles again. "No. Fuck no."
I flip my first card over. It's a ten of hearts. "You ever been married?" I ask him.
He brings his hand up to his neck and pops it, but doesn't look at me. "Once. Didn't last long."
Yeah, I know. I was there.
"Was she a whore?" I ask him. "Is that why you aren't married to her anymore?"
He laughs and makes eye contact with me again. "Yeah. Yeah, she was."
I blow out a slow breath, then flip over my second card. An ace of clubs.
Blackjack.
"I'm getting married," I say. "But she's not a whore."
I don't think I'm making any sense to him, because he tilts his head and his eyes narrow a little. Then he leans forward and taps the edge of the table. "Let me give you a piece of advice, son."
"Don't call me son."
He pauses for a second and I recognize a flash of the condescending look he used to give. Then he says, "They're all whores. You're young, don't settle down. Enjoy your life."
"I do fucking enjoy my life. I enjoy it a whole fucking bunch."
He shakes his head and then mutters, "You're the angriest son of a bitch I've ever met."
He's right. I am.
I've never been angrier than I am in this moment.
I want to climb across this table and shove my cards down his throat, despite the fact that it's a winning hand.
The dealer pushes my winnings in front of me, but I stand up and walk away before I do something stupid inside a building full of security cameras and security guards.
"Sir!" The dealer calls after me. "You can't walk away from your chips!"
"Keep the fucking chips!"
I walk as fast as I can from one side of the casino to the other. I finally find Jon, flanked by the two lot lizards at a fucking pussy-ass Wheel of Fortune game.
"Go find Dalton and Kevin. We're leaving."
I walk toward the exit and as soon as I shove open the doors, I bend forward, gasping for breath.
I'm not like him.
I'm nothing like him.
He's pathetic. He's weak. He's fucking bald, for Christ's sake!
My hands are shaking.
"Hey!" I get the attention of a man who just exited. "Can I bum one of those?"
He puts his cigarette in his mouth to reach into his pocket for another one. He hands it to me, then offers me a lighter. I light it and mutter thanks, then inhale a long drag of it. I'm still pacing when the guys finally make it outside.
But not far behind them, I see him, the wrinkled-tit lot lizard flanked to his arm. They're making their way toward the exit.
"Let's go," Jon says, once they're all outside.
I shake my head and don't take my eyes off my father. "We'll leave in a second."
I continue staring at them as they walk toward the exit. Once they push through the doors and are outside, his eyes land on me. He notices the cigarette in my mouth as he passes me.
"I thought you said you didn't smoke."
"I don't," I say, blowing smoke toward him. "This is my first."
Again with the condescending looks. They're the same condescending looks he used to give me when I was a kid, only this time they aren't served up with a beating.
From his end, anyway.
They keep walking, and when they're about five feet away, I say, "You have a lovely afternoon, Paul Jackson."
My father stops walking, waiting a few seconds before turning around. When he finally does, I see it. The recognition. He cocks his head and says, "I never told you my name."
I shrug and then drop my cigarette to the concrete, snuffing it out with the heel of my shoe. "My bad. Guess I should have said Dad."
There's no second-guessing whether that's recognition on his face now. "Asa?" He takes a step forward, but that was his second mistake.
His first was not remembering me to begin with.
I stride over to him and come down on him with both fists. The pathetic fuck hits the ground before I even follow through with a full swing. I can feel one of the guys trying to pull me off of him. The bitch is screaming in my ear, scratching at my face, trying to get me off of him.
I punch him again. I punch him for every year he left me alone. I punch him for every time he called my mother a whore. I punch him for every piece of fucked up advice he ever gave me. I keep punching him until my fists are covered in blood and I can no longer see my father's face. There's so much blood, I'm pretty sure I even mistake the concrete for his head, because that punch hurts the worst.
When the guys finally pull me off him and start dragging me toward the car, I feel the wet shit on my face. The shit my father told me is what makes the difference between men and pussies.
Yes, I'm talking about tears. I can feel them and I can't fucking stop them and I've never felt so power
ful and so weak in my whole fucking life.
I have no idea how I make it to the passenger seat, or who even put me here, but I'm fucking beating the dashboard, punching it so hard it cracks. Kevin is peeling out of the parking lot, I'm sure trying to beat security before they find the bloody mess I left at their front entry.
Jon reaches around my seat and tries to pull my arms behind me, but he's stupider than I thought if he thinks he can hold me back. I tear my arms from his grip and start punching the dash again. I'll punch it until my hands are numb or this shit stops coming out of my fucking eyes.
I'm not turning into him. I'm not fucking turning into that pathetic bastard.
I don't want to feel this anymore.
"Somebody fucking give me something!" I yell.
It feels like my bones are trying to tear through my skin. I pull at my hair, I punch the fucking window. "I can't fucking breathe!"
Kevin rolls down the window, but it doesn't help.
"Give me something!" I yell again. I turn around and try to grab Jon, but he leans back and lifts his fucking leg up like that'll protect him from me. "Now!"
"It's in the trunk!" Jon yells. "Christ, Kevin! Pull over so we can calm him the fuck down!"
I turn around and punch at the dash again. Several punches later, Jon returns to the back seat. "Give me two seconds," he says.
He's a fucking liar, because it's more like ten seconds before he hands me the needle. I pull the cap off with my teeth and shove it in my arm.
I lean back in my seat.
"Go," I say to Kevin.
I close my eyes and feel the car begin to move.
I am nothing like him.
And they are not all whores. Sloan is not a whore.
"She's heroin," I whisper. "Heroin is nice."
"What are you hungry for?" I ask her.
She wanted me to drive back, so I've been looking for a restaurant for the last five miles.
"I don't care," she says. "Anything but Greek."
"You don't like Greek food?"
She shrugs. "It's okay. There's just not a Greek restaurant until the next town and I'm hungry. If you wanted Greek, I'd have to wait too long to eat."
I laugh. She's so goddamn adorable. I reach over to take her hand, but receive an incoming text. I normally wouldn't text and drive, especially with Sloan in the car, but Dalton said he'd warn me if they decided to come back early.