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“Don’t be. Bastard got what was coming to him. They found him dead in the parking lot the next day. Shot in the head. But not before he’d gambled away every last cent.” He speaks as though it doesn’t affect him, like the story he’s sharing belongs to someone else.
“That’s awful. Did they ever find out who did it?”
“Nope. They think he just messed with the wrong guys. Or maybe he owed someone else money. Who knows?”
I remember the rich neighborhood we drove through the night Will took me to his tree house.
“That’s why you knew the neighborhood we went to so well, right? Because you used to live there before he…” I press my lips together. I could slap myself. Way to be insensitive.
“It’s fine. You can say it.”
“Before he died.”
“Yeah. We had to leave the house my mom spent years saving for after he took everything. She’d just quit her job to start her jewelry business, too. We were finally in a good place. She could afford to chase her dream. A week later, we were moving into a one-bedroom dumpster. Then into a homeless shelter. She had no one. No relatives. No friends. My toxic old man had isolated her for so long. I was in denial. I was eight, you know?”
My heart bleeds for him.
“The worst part is, he was always a good dad to me. He was the kind of dad to build you a fucking tree house just because you asked. That’s why I couldn’t hate him. I couldn’t believe he was dead, or that he’d emptied all of our accounts and left us with nothing.”
“What did your mom tell you?” I can’t possibly imagine explaining this to an eight-year-old boy.
“She spent years trying to convince me he went to the casino that night hoping to double the money he’d stolen and come back home to us. I believed her for a while, but now I know it was a load of bullshit. He wasn’t a saint. Or a caring parent. He was nothing but a sick man with a gambling addiction. When my mom’s folks passed away and she got her inheritance, he couldn’t take it anymore. He just snapped. Took everything and ran.”
So, not only did he steal his family’s money, he stole the money his wife got from her dead parents, too?
Because it wasn’t bad enough.
“How’s your mom now? Please tell me she recovered.”
Something shifts in his eyes, but I can’t tell what.
“Yeah. She’s fine now.”
Thank God.
“She found work again?” I ask.
He gives me a faint nod.
“Good.”
A beat of silence.
“You win, Willy.”
Confusion blazes in his eyes.
“In the worst-parents department, you win.” I offer him an apologetic smile that he barely returns. From there, we stop talking, neither of us questioning whether he’s staying the night. The answer seems evident. I turn my back on him, ready to black out and feel him slip under the blanket with me.
But I’m far from prepared for what he does next.
He moves closer, bands his arm around my waist, and leads me to his chest. With that one simple move, my lungs bail on me. He holds me. No questions asked, no explanation. I can’t seem to wrap my head around this moment.
Will is in my bed. My brother’s best bud, the dumbass who pushed me in the pool too many times to count last summer, the guy I once thought had air where his brain should be, is spending the night in my bed. Cuddling me. What in the fuck is happening right now?
It should be weird.
But it’s not.
