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“Why?”
“Because he could give you something I never could.”
“What?”
“A home, son. A future.”
Sighing, I stare at the man I hated for so long. The man who I’m reminded of every day when I look in the mirror. A man I fucking hate and love at the same time.
“I blamed you for so long,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, stamping out his cigarette.
“Do you, Dad? Do you really?” I ask, punching my fist against the door.
“Son, it’s okay.” He grabs my arms, turning me around.
The dog tags, his dog tags, I’ve been wearing my whole life suddenly feel heavy around my neck. When I meet his eyes, my father is staring at them. I didn’t realize I was clutching the tags so tight. My fingers are digging into my flesh. I shake my head from left to right, hitting my skull against the wall over and over again.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
I drop the dog tags, pushing him away from me. “Fuck you!” I yell.
There is a knock on the door and Animal asks, “Prez, you okay in there?”
“Yeah, give us a sec,” my father orders.
“Yes, sir.” Animal knocks his knuckles on the wood in confirmation.
“Hunter, look at me,” my father demands.
I shake my head.
“Hunt,” he orders, grabbing my face.
I ease back and lock eyes with him.
“It wasn’t your fault. Your mother dying, me going to prison,” he says, grabbing my shoulders, trying to hold me still.
“Don’t you goddamn tell me this,” I grit out, pushing him away. He lets me. The son of a bitch isn’t even putting up a fight.
“Son, it’s not your fault,” he repeats softly, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.
A sob escapes me, and I can’t hold myself together any longer. My knees give out but my father holds me and takes me into his arms. I punch my fists into his chest, and he lets me, not saying a word. Before I know it, I bury my face in his shoulder as he holds me until I can’t cry anymore.
When he lets me go, some kind of understanding has passed between us. The anger and the hate slowly slip away. The son of a bitch is right.
“Want to sit?” He motions to a chair, the right side of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting against his emotions.
“Sure,” I mumble, embarrassed by my outburst, my fucking weakness. I have been running against the wind for so long, and I’m tired, so damn tired.
We talk until I lose track of time. My father tells me he went to every race in California he could go to. He even shows me a picture of his new wife, a lawyer he met four years ago when she got him out from under some charges.
He tells me about her son, Danny.
“You have a son?” I ask, staring into his eyes.
“Yeah, I adopted him when I married Debra. A great kid—has been a light in the darkness for a long time,” he says, his voice soft.
