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“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 realize you’re the 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—she was 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 feel sorry that 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.
He watches me eat. “Why meet with me now?”
I swallow a bite of roast beef. “Things aren’t good at work. I’m close to being canned, and I’ve been wondering how you’re doing.” There are more truths than lies in there.
“Well, I’m good. Been out for a while now. Mistakes were made. Things are better now.” He gives me a warm, charming smile that reminds me of before. Before he started using regularly. Before prison. I almost fall into it. Almost believe it.
“You’re not using?” I ask.
Things are better now.
How many times have I heard it? Hundreds? Thousands? Every day of my adolescent life?
He sniffs hard, looks around. “Maybe once since I’ve been back, but it’s different this time. I wanna help your mom when she gets out. I’m staying clean.”
He can’t look me in the eyes and say it.
I see him at twenty-two bent down to my eight-year-old height while I’m crying about Mom screaming an ear-splitting scream in the bedroom. She was hallucinating. Hadn’t slept in days. She sounded like she was being murdered.
“She’s fine,” he said. “She’s okay, buddy. Hey, look at me. Don’t cry.” He wiped my tears. “Are you a strong boy? Huh? Don’t cry. You’re a Donnelly. You remember that.” He messed my hair and smiled, one that faded of light the older I grew. “Let’s go get ice cream.”
He never took me to get ice cream. He got distracted at a cousin’s place and he accidentally left me there for two days. My mom cried about it.
And they both promised they’d quit using.
I’m clean now.
Things are better now.
It’s just a little bit.
Just one time.
Once more.
Tomorrow I’ll quit.
I have this under control.
Believe me.
At the booth, I say nothing to him until he focuses on me.
“What?” he snaps, then leans forward. “You don’t believe me? Honestly, do I look like I’m using? You should be able to tell.” He motions down his body and across his face like he’s John fucking Cena with the wrestling catchphrase you can’t see me.
It almost makes me laugh, and I do get a good look at him. His face is clear of pock marks, just some old scars. Like the one beside his temple. His usual tick—scratching at his temple—isn’t apparent yet. Though, I’ve seen recovering meth addicts still have the same ticks. The repercussions of using can be long-lasting and permanent.
“You want to see bad? Go visit your cousin Kieran,” he says. “He can’t even remember what he ate yesterday. He stumbles over every other word, and that’s not what I want to see for your mom. We’ve been sober in prison. We still have time to beat this.” He lets out a strangled breath, thinking something over. “Meth, man…” He laughs a little like it’s a love-hate relationship, and for him, it probably is. “Better than sex. But you know that.”
