“I am proud of you, son,” he said.
I thought it would kill me that night. Maybe some part of me did die in that hospital room, because he had always been proud of me. Even when I was nothing but bad choices, bruised knuckles, and a man trying to love Skylar without ruining her.
The letter crinkles in my hand.
I cast my gaze upon it.
Dear Zane,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.
I can hear you already. That jaw of yours locked tight. That look on your face that says you are about to turn grief into anger because anger feels less embarrassing.
I know you, son. Better than you think or would like. You were always easy to read. You just mistook being difficult for being mysterious.
That line made me smile the first time I read it.
It still does. Painfully.
The letter shakes a little in my hand and I fucking hate that paper can do this. Or that a man can be gone and still reach through ink to put his hand on the back of your neck. And Rainer always understood what to apply pressure to.
A few words.
A quiet truth.
One little jab, wrapped in love, because apparently even from the grave, the old bastard still had timing.
I drag in a breath that does nothing to ease the emotion of seeing this letter. His letter.
I keep reading.
There are things I should have said while I was still alive. I did not say them because I am old, stubborn, and not built for speeches. You already know that. If you wanted pretty words, you should have found a poet. You got me instead.
I want you to know why I did what I did. You asked me so many times why I took on that feral little kid I found in the trash. You always did have a talent for fighting the truth when it got too close.
You asked me why I gave every dollar I could. Why I gave you every night under my roof at the workshop. Why I kept showing up at that prison until you made yourself so ugly you pushed me away.
I knew why you turned kindness into a ledger, son. That is what people taught you. That nothing came free. They taught you that every hand reaching down had a hook in it. That love was something people used to make you owe them.
I stop there and press my thumb against the page.
The ink has blurred in one small spot.
Not from him. From me.
The first week after the funeral, I got drunk out here and read that line until the sky turned gray. Read it until the words stopped being words and became a hand around my throat.
He understood me.
Fuck, he knew me. Rainer saw every rotten thing life had carved into me—every sharp edge, every busted piece—and somehow decided I was still worth the trouble.
I drag in a breath before I force myself to keep reading.
When I found you, you were all elbows, attitude, and hunger. Too young to be that angry, too proud to admit you were scared. I knew that look because I had worn it myself.
That is something I never told you. You were not the first angry boy with nowhere to go who slept near bins and pretended he had chosen it. I was one too.
The letter shifts in my hand.
