There might have been more days they weren’t working if his dad had stuck around to share the load.
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“Do you want him to know you’re not?”
Rory ran a hand over his curls, his cap balanced on his knee under the table. “Not really,” he admitted. “He’s probably happier thinking I’m dead. I’m pretty sure he used to wish I’d died as a baby.”
The muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitched. “That’s revolting.”
Rory shrugged helplessly. “He never wanted me to exist. It would have made his life easier if I’d died.”
“Your mother fled starvation only to end up in a country that treats immigrants like trash,” Arthur said sharply. “She was eighteen and preyed on by a liar who claimed to be a good Christian promising marriage. Your father is not the one I feel pity for.”
Rory tried to swallow. “He took me in when she died—”
“Grudgingly. And it sounds like he worked you to the bone, wringing far more out of you than his church could have possibly spent.”
Rory looked out the window again, his stomach roiling.
“We don’t owe our hearts to people who hurt us, even if they’re our blood.” Arthur’s voice was tight. “He was supposed to take care of you when you were at your most vulnerable, and he threw you to the wolves instead. He’s your father, and if you do want to see him, I understand and will support you. But you are not required to want more of his neglect.”
“I don’t.” The truth burst out of Rory before he’d realized he was going to say it. His eyes burned hot, and he shut them tight behind his glasses, sliding his fingers up behind his lenses to cover them. “He told that asylum to drill into my brain, Ace, even when he knew it might destroy me. He left me chained to a bed and force-fed. I don’t want to see him.”
“Then stay here.”
The words surprised Rory enough that he turned to look.
Arthur was watching him, his own eyes deeply sincere. “Stay here,” he said again. “Buy a book, walk in the sun. Be safe but be happy while I go alone to get the snuffer from your father.”
The possibility shone like a beckoning dream. But Rory couldn’t dodge responsibility. He shook his head. “I don’t get to hide behind you, that’s not how life works.”
“Why not?” Arthur said, taking Rory by surprise. “Maybe life can’t always work like this, but in this moment, yes, it can. There is no reason both of us need to go. There is no reason you need to suffer.”
He folded his hands under his chin, his shoulders tense. “If you need another reason, consider that you’re on a telepath’s Most Wantedlist. It is considerably safer for your father if he doesn’t know the truth.”
Rory scowled. “You coulda led with that, you know.”
“Forgive me if I think your feelings should matter for a change,” Arthur said, not sounding apologetic in the least. His eyes darted to the next table, and then he lowered his voice. “You tease me for being overprotective, but I want to be your shield. I can do this for you.”
He hesitated, then said, “And to be perfectly honest I still think there’s a strong chance I’m going to hit him and I’d rather you didn’t see that.”
And despite his roiling feelings, Rory snorted. “You can’t hit a pastor.”
“I’m fairly certain I could. And it’s a pretty good threat, if I say so myself, between football and boxing—”
“Ace.”
“What? No one should get unqualified immunity for abuse just because they claim to be a man of faith.”
Rory folded his arms. “I thought Captain Overprotective wasn’t going to let me out of his sight?”
“I was alieutenant,” said Arthur. “And if you must know, I don’t like it, but it’s far preferable to giving your father another chance to hurt you.”
Rory bit his lip. He looked out at the town street again, and then suddenly said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll stay here.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. “You will?”
Rory shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t got a job, I’m relying on you—might as well milk the helpless schtick, right?”
