“You said you deserved it,” I say, switching to a neutral tone, not giving away how much his words trouble me. “What does that mean to you?”
He looks out the window, as if it’s a casual move instead of a deliberate way of avoiding my eye. I get the sense he’s both hoping I’ll drop it but afraid I will, too.
“My dad didn’t impart wisdom the way some dads do. He was a living example. If someone needed him, he was there. If a guy stumbled into the bar and had no way home, Dad let him sleep it off at our place.
“Part of being a real man is putting other people first, he always said. Balancing duty with desires. The way I see it, a man should be where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there. When he ain’t, bad things have a way of happening.”
“Was your dad where he was supposed to be when he was in his accident?”
Patty’s amber eyes flash red. “He was on his way home from fixing the church roof.”
I nod slowly. “Interesting. So it sounds likehewas where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. So why did something bad happen to him? You don’t think he deserved it, do you?”
His throat bobs hard. “Never.”
“What if you found out he was fumbling with the radio? That he looked away for a split second when the other car veered? Hiseyes weren’t where they were supposed to be. Would he deserve it then?”
“Of course not,” he growls.
“Then can we both admit your theory holds no weight? If this was karma, then it’s done. You’re off the hook. If this was God or the universe exacting revenge for being a young, selfish idiot, then you have no reason to beat yourself up anymore. You’ve paid your dues. The scales have been righted.”
“That ain’t how it works, and you know it.”
“Of course I know it! And you do, too! Saying you deserved it doesn’t make sense, and it sure doesn’t make it better! It doesn’t fix your pain or your dad’s. It doesn’t help Sean. If anything, it makes it all worse.
“You made a mistake. You were grieving. Even if you were selfish and reckless, trusting the wrong person isn’t the same as choosing to crash. It’s his fault. Or … her fault,” I add, not liking the way the word feels on my tongue.
Patty shakes his head. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop expecting your first draft to be flawless. You screwed up! Own it, erase what’s written in pencil, and work with what’s written in ink. But don’t throw away the page because there are mistakes on it.”
Instead of answering me, he takes a sip, completely unfazed, as if he hasn’t just committed a crime against his own body by drinking that coffee.
I watch him. Watch the mug. Him. The mug.
He doesn’t even blink.
That’s it.
I reach forward, calm, deliberate, and take the mug straight from his hands.
He doesn’t stop me. Just watches, like he’s waiting to see where this is going.
You won’t have to wait long.
I turn to the sink. No rush. No words. No hesitation.
I tip the entire thing over and pour it out in one slow, satisfying stream.
The silence between us is deafening.
I place the mug in the sink, wipe my hands on a dish towel, and finally turn back to face him.
He’s just staring at me.
Blinking.
Like he can’t decide if he’s annoyed, impressed, or deeply concerned.
