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“Ay!” An older man behind the counter waves a hand at me. “No smokin’ in here.”
I’m about to put them away when my dad yells, “Since when, Mike? I just saw two guys lighting up in here yesterday.”
Mike spins to him, recognition sparking before confusion overtakes him. “Sean, you going to bat for this guy?”
“That guy is my kid.”
“Paul?” Mike swings his head to me. “I thought he died.”
“Back from the grave,” my dad says without a beat. “Two roast beefs.”
My unlit cigarette hangs from my lips—too stunned to light it when he sits down with our hoagies and two sodas.
My dad gives me a look. “Go ahead and smoke. Mike just gives people shit.”
I pull out my lighter, silently hating I’m just falling into what he says to do.
He slides me my hoagie and takes a bite from his, lettuce falling out of the soft bread.
“How much I owe you?” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet.
“It’s on me.” He’s not meeting my gaze, just chewing his food and swallowing.
I wouldn’t normally take the hand-out, one that probably comes with a stipulation, but if I want him to trust me, then I gotta act like I trust him.
“Thanks.” I light the cigarette and blow out smoke. “You told people I died?”
“People assumed. You weren’t around. No one heard about you going to prison. Death seemed more likely.” He swigs from the soda. “Some don’t even realizeyou’rethe Ass-Kicker, the same Donnelly who’s become somethin’ of a celebrity, protecting the rich and famous.” He picks out the tomato. “So there’s Paul, my son, and then there’s Donnelly, the celebrity. Who’s here today?”
I take another drag to calm my nerves. “Who do you want here?” I ask him.
“I don’t know this Donnelly. I just know the little shit who used to tie bedsheets to the banister and swing around like he was George of the Jungle.” He laughs, his smile faraway at the good memory, but the smile gradually fades like time. “You left.”
“Why would I stay?” I breathe. “You and Mom were in prison.”
“Your grandmom. She died and you were fuck-knows where.”
“She didn’t even know I left. Once you and Scottie were sentenced, she just checked out—shewas gone.”
I had no one.
Uncles and cousins took and took. They never gave me anything.
He works his jaw, glaring at the hoagie wrapper. “You could’ve been there for her…done something for her.”
“I was thinking about myself,” I tell him honestly. “I wasn’t thinking about her.”
Regret touches his eyes. He looks away from me. “She did more for your mom and you than you can imagine. She didn’t deserve to die alone.”
I don’t feel badly for my grandmom. I don’t even feelsorrythat I didn’t stick around. Being selfish is the only piece of myself that’s kept me alive, and it might be one of the few traits I share with my dad.
Because I know if he weren’t in prison, he would’ve been too high to even notice his own mother. He usually was.
I don’t reply to him.
It’s not like he was asking a question.
I tap ash and pick up my hoagie with one hand. Careful not to rustle the mic taped against my chest. I’ve been warned several times of sound inference, but leaving a hoagie untouched is suspicious and sacrilege.
