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“You’ll find somebody else,” I tell him gruffly.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s just rejection doesn’t feel good.”
“You went on one date. It didn’t go perfectly. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Maybe it’s the end ofmyworld.”
He’s on the verge of throwing a tantrum. I bite down, jaw aching, wondering how Margot would’ve dealt with this. The sad truth is, she probably wouldn’t have. Or she would’ve babied him. I hate the whine in his voice. He wouldn’t last two seconds in my old life. Maybe I’m a sexist bastard, but I don’t think men should whine like that.
“If that’s how you feel,” I tell him, “you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror. One bad date shouldn’t send you into a spiral.”
“I’m not in aspiral,” he says, again with that whining tone.
“I love you, James,” I tell him.
He scoffs. “Need to remind yourself, do you?”
“I love you,” I repeat, “but it’s time to grow up. It’s time to accept—”
“Mom isdead. Will you cut me some slack?”
He yells when I abruptly pull the car over at the side of the road. Turning to him, I sit up taller, glaring down. He shrinks in his chair. He’s too tall, too strong to be behaving like this.
“What did I tell you after she passed?” I snarl.
“D-Dad…”
“Tell me,” I snap, hating the fact my own son seems frightened of me. I’ve never hit him. I’ve taken out men who’ve laid their hands on their kids many times. I’ve never bullied him. He’s just soft.“James.”
“To never use it as an excuse,” he mutters. “It will make me weak. It will turn me into a victim, and I can’t afford to be a victim. There are too many bad people in the world.”
“Exactly,” I snap.
He softens, eyes glistening. “You’re not a bad person, Dad. So why can’t I be weak with you?”
I don’t have a good answer for that. I’ve never been the lovey type. I try my best. I say the right words, but when it comes to that deep emotional connection, if anything, I try to avoid it. Feeling might mean bringing it all back, the stuff I’ve seen, the absolute inhumanity of humanity.
Ignoring his question—I’m not a good man—I pull away from the sidewalk. I turn on the radio. We drive, saying nothing else.
My mind goes to Samantha, her youthful eyes, her just-about-tamed hair, and her wide hips. My mind goes to an impossible future: Samantha waking me on a lazy Sunday morning, our children laughing from deeper in the house, and the smell of bacon tickling my nose. A life I never imagined I could have.
We’re almost home when my cell phone rings.
“Would you answer that, son?”
“Okay,Dad.”
He often does this when I call himson. Once, he told me I was trying artificially to create a father-son dynamic way too late. The worst part is I can’t exactly tell him he’s wrong. He takes my phone from the glove compartment and puts it on speaker.
“Mr. Jacobson?” the man says. “It’s Charles Malone.”
“Good to hear from you,” I tell the private investigator.
“I thought you’d want to know. I’ve got a lead on the van and a description of the driver. He pawned it off at a chop shop soon after the kidnapping. My thinking is these fellas, they steal a vehicle, use it for a few jobs, then send it to the chop shop for some extra dough.”
“How much?” I ask.
He laughs. “Beat me to it. To chase down this lead, I will need to call in some old favors with my buddies in blue. Five should cut it.”
