Page 11 of The Damage Man

“If I had to do it all over again—”

“I don’t want to hear this. Especially right now.”

“If there’s anything you need to hear from me—”

“There isn’t.”

Rusty’s chin quivers just barely. Blake is glaring out the window, but Evan caught the tiny tell of paternal distress and it sets his insides on edge. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser, tries to wipe up the drip of maple syrup.

“I get it,” Rusty tells Blake. “I’ll never pretend to understand what it must have been like for you.”

“So stop.”

A wisp of napkin has torn from Evan’s rubbing and it flutters up from the spot of syrup like a little flag. It reminds Evan of tissue, of toilet paper, spiking his disgust. He grabs another napkin and grinds it free of the surface, balls it up, looks around uncomfortably.

“Sorry. I’ll just—” Rusty’s voice cracks. He scoots quickly from the booth and heads outside. Evan can see him through the glass door, head tipped down, trying to catch his breath.

“This is what it takes,” Blake says, staring through the dirty glass at his father. “This is what it takes for him to see me. When I’m about to get killed.”

“Go to his place. It’s safe.”

“He just left. Just walked out. I was in eighth grade. What kind of father does something like that?”

For all his faults, which seem manifold, at least Rusty has shown up. Like the guard bees, he has chosen what he is willing to fight and what he must protect.

Evan sets down his crumpled napkin. “He is here.”

“Big deal.”

“No one showed up like that for me.”

“When?”

“Ever.”

Blake stares at him. The open expression, along with his curled lashes, make him look a decade younger.

The RoamZone buzzes twice rapidly.

A text from Joey containing an address and location link. The next one features a series of emojis—arm making a muscle, fist bump, Munch-Scream face, skull.

“What’s that?” Blake asks.

“Location of Cyrus’s boss.”

“Ivan?”

“Yes. Is he the big boss?”

“I don’t know. He’s the only guy I talked to. And just over the phone.”

Outside the shop, Rusty is facing away, leaning with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“I’ll find out if it stops with him,” Evan says.

“Appreciate it. Seriously, man. And sorry you got dragged into all our … family shitshow. I’m not at my best. Haven’t slept in three days. Like: at all. I just keep cycling. My brain. Know what I keep thinking?”

“No.”