But there was something that I couldn’t let go. “One more thing, Mr. Murphy.” I hated to bring it up in front of Jackson. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass him more. Pulling my keys from around my neck, I said, “Jackson, would you mind doing me a favor?”
Without answering, or even acknowledging me, he looked at his father for permission. Once that was granted, he nodded at me before sliding out of his seat. Holding out my keys for him to take, I asked him to go into the equipment closet and grab me the bag of footballs. “The laces are all messed up on a few of them, and I want to make sure they’re all inflated before tomorrow,” I lied.
Leaning in just an inch closer, I tried my best not to seem intimidating or accusatory. But I had a feeling Mr. Murphy would see it is anything but. “Jackson didn’t have any lunch today.”
I was hoping that, despite his aura of arrogance, he would at least be somewhat apologetic for sending his son to a full day of football camp without a meal. But instead of an apology, I was met with dumbfounded surprise. “Yeah, I know.”
“This isn’t the first time either,” I added.
“What’s your point?” He grew annoyed.
Angry at the direction this conversation was moving, I decided to cut the bullshit and get to the core of the issue before Jackson came back outside. “Just make sure he has some food tomorrow. The kids get hungry out there. And he’s here the full day.”
“While I appreciate your concern,” he said in a voice that bordered on malevolent, “what goes on with my son is my business, not yours.” When he leaned his head out the window, I caught the distinct stench of beer on his breath. After a lifetime of smelling it on my own father, it was impossible to miss. “When he earns his meals, he’ll have one to bring with him,” he snipped.
Under the weight of the football bag, Jackson stumbled back to the truck. “Here you go, Coach.” Out of breath, he dropped the bag at my feet and began to walk to his side of the truck.
“One sec, Jackson,” I called him back. “Take this one with you.” Tossing him a ball, his eyes lit up. “Maybe your dad will have a catch with you, show you some of his old moves.”
Whatever brightness was there just a moment ago had quickly evaporated, and I wondered if I’d done more harm than good. Worry plagued me as I watched him step back into the truck. Just as I was about to tell Mr. Murphy how it was terrible idea for him to drive, the door slammed and he revved the engine.
As Mr. Murphy sped away, the truck swerved slightly. Silently, I vowed to help Jackson. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant just yet, but I knew that it meant bringing a spare lunch every day to make sure he didn’t go hungry, at least while he was under my watch.
Raking my hand through my hair, I let out a deep breath of frustration. There wasn’t anything I could do about Jackson right now. And if I said that was the only source of my worry I’d be lying.
Because as I walked toward my car, my stomach knotted in anxiety for an entirely different reason.
Micah.
Today, after a decade of wondering where he was and how he was doing, I would finally see him again.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with those feelings.
Because even though I told him to stay the fuck away from me all those years ago, the truth was, I never wanted him to leave.
