Page 70 of Finding Noah

“Should've thought about that before you tried to steal,” Patrick replied.

The teenager’s mouth opened, then quickly closed, and he looked away to stare at the floor. I looked up, meeting Dad's gaze with mine, and I saw a suggestion there—a plea—and I nodded before turning to Patrick.

“Guys, give us a minute, please,” I said.

Patrick's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he nodded after a beat.

When I was alone with the boy, I said, “My name's Noah. What's yours?”

“Matt.”

“Matt,” I repeated, nodding. “It's nice to meet you. Can I ask how old you are?”

“Fifteen.”

I'd been a little off, but not by much.

“What are you doing stealing beer, Matt? You don't wanna drink that shit. It's gross, and it makes you feel like crap.”

I might've been lying a bit. I liked having a beer every now and then, and I didn't think it was all that gross. But it did make me feel like an absolute dumpster if I drank too much, and it didn't take a genius to know that this kid was inexperienced enough to likely drink too much without knowing it.

“I dunno,” he muttered.

I brought my shoulders to my ears as I crossed my arms, turning to look out the store window. “Ah, come on, Matt. There's gotta be a reason.”

He hesitated, then said, “I was gonna sleep over at Adam’s house ‘cause I don't wanna go home, but he told me he wanted beer, so I—”

“Why don't you wanna go home?” I asked, glancing over at him.

He swallowed, visibly shaken. “I … I didn't mean to say that. I just meant, I … um … I wanted to hang out with Adam, but he's been hanging out with this stupid kid who likes beer, and—”

“Okay, Matt, first of all, any friend who puts you in the position to get in trouble isn't a friend at all,” I said, thinking about Jay.

He had gotten me in trouble, yes, but I also asked for it. We worked together on that. We'd been a team. I wasn't sure this kid had asked for it. He was running away from problems at home, from the looks of it, and his buddy had taken advantage of him.

“Second of all,” I went on, speaking quietly, “you know, if there's something going on at home, I can help with that. I want to.”

He swallowed again, and with a tremulous breath, he lifted his eyes to mine. “My, um … my dad's been, uh …” He sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “My mom died. Last year.”

I hoped he'd circle back to what he'd started to say about his dad as I hung my head and nodded. I couldn't imagine losing my mom. Not at that age. Fuck, not at any age, but especially not when I'd been so young and vulnerable and easily influenced.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Matt.”

“Yeah. Fuck cancer.”

Continuing to nod, I agreed solemnly, “Fuck cancer straight to hell.”

“I'm okay,” he said, but I wasn't sure I believed him. “My dad isn't though.”

“I bet losing her hit him really hard.”

“He, um … he drinks a lot. He gets mad. I don't think he's mad at me—”

“No, he's not mad at you,” I said, shaking my head reassuringly.

“But he's mad, and he uses me as his punching bag.” He blinked rapidly, his eyes welling up with tears. “I-I mean, not like … he doesn't hit me. He just yells. And he throws shit. And I can't stand it.”

The layers of his agony and grief ran deep.