I just don’t think I can be the one to tell her.
* * *
“What the hellis your problem, dude?”
I look up from my beer and see that fucker, Gus. “I don’t have a problem.”
“Yeah. You do.” His glare should scare the shit out of me, but I just don’t care.
“Just spit it out, then get out of my fucking face,Venom.”
“You just stopped talking to her,” he snaps his fingers, “like that. Now she’s stressed out even more than she was, and that’s not good for the baby.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“You cocksucker.”
“Yep.” I take a long pull from my beer.
“You need to make a choice. If you’re out, then stay the fuck out. But if you’re in, you need to stay the fuck in. Grow a pair, you pathetic piece of shit.”
“My kid died.”
Okay. I hadn’t expected to say it. Not out loud, and definitely not to Gus fucking Kowalski.
“Say what?”
“Nothing.”
“No way. You just said your kid died.”
If he heard me, why’d he have to ask? That kind of shit drives me crazy.
“Nate.” His voice doesn’t sound quite as angry. I guess that’s good.
Turning on the bar stool I’ve been planted on for the last two hours, I look Gus in the eye. “I had a son. He died.” I turn back to face the rows and rows of bottles behind the bar.
“How?”
“Does it matter?” Seriously.
“Yeah.”
“Cancer.” Neuroblastoma, to be exact.
“Fuck, man.”
There’s way too much silence now. It’s awkward. I feel the pity rolling off him, and I hate that shit.
He finally speaks. “How old?”
“Six months.” To the day.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, man.”
“Me too.” I pour the remaining beer down my gullet.
“When?”
