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“I think she’ll like having the extra storage,” Graham adds.
I look back to Pop. “Can I help?” I ask.
He ignores my question and steps to pick up another piece of wood.
“Come on, Pop. Don’t give me the silent treatment like some pissed-off female,” I quip.
Graham coughs out a laugh until Pop’s glare scorches us both, and he chokes it down.
“I’ll let you two have a minute,” Graham offers, and I grab his wrist before he can scurry off.
“Please stay,” I whisper to him out of the corner of my mouth.
He takes a deep breath and blows it out, and slowly, he turns back to us.
“Go ahead, Pop. Let me have it,” I encourage.
He hangs his head for a minute, and then he removes his glasses and gloves and tosses them on the horse. He brings his furious gaze to me, and I actually take a step back to avoid the burn.
“You’re not a boy anymore, Garrett. I can’t take you over my knee, but I want to. I raised six sons. Each one with his own personality. You and Morris were always the ones who had to learn your lessons the hard way. I understand that. So, I let you get into your troubles but stayed close enough to make sure you didn’t get too far in over your heads without my hand to help steady you. I brought up six boys into men, and I had five rules that I poured into you. One, you be a man of your word. Two, you work hard. Three, you respect your mother. Four, you never raise your hand to a woman. Five, learn to use and respect weapons and never use them recklessly. You broke three of the five, son.”
I let his words sink in and try my damnedest to figure out which three.
I shake my head because for the life of me, I can’t.
“Don’t stand there and act like you didn’t,” he yells.
My father very rarely raises his voice, so when he does, we pay attention.
“You’re gonna have to help me here, Pop. I can’t apologize when I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done.”
His expression grows angrier, and I hear Graham mumble, “Uh-oh,” as Pop stomps over to get into my face.
“I saw the news. I read the headlines. You laid your hands on that girl in the bar. That’s strike one.”
I throw my hands up in defense. “Pop, she was the one attacking me. I swear, all I did was hold her shoulders so she didn’t hurt me or herself.”
“Then, you got into a car, piss drunk on alcohol, and turned it into a four-thousand-pound missile, pointed at every single innocent person on the road. You could have killed any of them or that girl or yourself. That’s two.”
I hang my head because he’s not wrong. I did turn the car into a loaded weapon that night.
“And your mother cried herself to sleep for days. Worried. Heartbroken. That’s strike three,” he finishes.
“I’m sorry, Pop.”
“You’re sorry. Well, all I can say is, you’re lucky that you are here to offer an apology. The asshole who hit your uncle Roger’s car and killed your cousin Bethany is spending the rest of his life in prison, and not a damn word he says will ever bring your baby cousin back or ever repair the damage it did to Roger and Lilian. Lilian died the same day they laid Bethany to rest. She might be walking on this side of the dirt, but she is gone. And I can’t believe one of my sons would ever risk doing that to another family.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to get us out of there, and we were being chased by photographers or fans and—”
“Excuses!” he screams in my face.
“Pop—”
“I don’t care what the reason was. You could’ve called a cab, a limo, a friend. You could have walked your ass home. You could have done a lot of things. Do you think I’d care if ten or ten thousand people were taking a picture of you if it resulted in your body lying dead on the side of the road? You know better. Your brother runs into burning buildings for a living, and I worry less about him than I do you. Driving drunk under any circumstance is like putting one bullet in a revolver, spinning the cylinder, and placing the barrel to your temple. You do not play Russian roulette with your life, damn it!”
I bring my eyes up to meet his, and I see the mist forming and the quiver in his lips. Shame fills me for the first time. I’ve been telling myself that my actions that night were justified. I convinced myself that everyone would understand when they heard the whole story. Seeing the disappointment, anger, love, and relief in my father’s eyes brings me to my knees. I walk into his chest, and his big arms envelop me in a bear hug so tight that I can barely breathe, and I start crying like the idiot I am.
“A man is not supposed to have to bury his son. That’s not the way it’s supposed to happen,” he mumbles.
“I’m so, so sorry, Pop. You’re right. I won’t ever do anything like that again. Not ever. You have my word,” I blabber into his neck.
He begins to cry, too, and then I feel Graham’s arms come around the two of us.
“Can we wrap this up soon? Taeli is on her way, and I don’t want her to see this sissy display,” Graham whispers.
That breaks the tension of the moment, and the three of us start laughing as we separate.
“Pop?”
He takes his hand and cups the back of my neck and tugs my forehead to his. “I love you, son. Nothing will ever change that. Just remember, no matter where you live or how big you get, you are Hilton Tuttle’s son. Never forget who you are and where you came from. It’s in here”—he taps my chest—“and no one can take it away from you without your permission.”
“I promise, Pop,” I choke out.
“Good. Now, let’s go eat that breakfast your mom made us.”
With that, he lets go of me and walks off toward the house.
Graham wraps an arm around my shoulders. “That went better than I’d expected. Honestly, I thought I was going to have to help him hide your body.”
“Me too, brother. Me too.”
Langford walks outside, and Pop sidesteps him and enters the back door. His gaze follows him and then returns to us.
“What’d I miss?”
