My hands fist under the table and I let go of my final shred of hope that I can make it to the Schultz's tonight. Sara called, asked me for help, and I failed.
"Wes." My voice is rough, a rock scraped over sandpaper. "Call Wes."
An hour passes.Maybe more. I'm torturing myself, running through scenarios of what could've gone down tonight at Mickey and Sara's. I pulled up memories of them as a happy family, like they used to be before Mickey lost his job and left to find work outside of town. When I'm sick of torturing myself, I run through a list of shit I need to do when I get out of here. The metal chair I'm sitting in started to feel like concrete about thirty minutes ago. My ass is asleep.
The sudden opening of the door startles me, and I sit up straight. The sheriff steps in, followed by my father.
My heart, my stomach, my whole body drops out of me, scattering on the cold floor.
Not my dad.
I'd specifically asked for my big brother, Wes. Not my other big brother, Warner, because he has kids and his wife is pregnant. Wes has a baby at home too, but my nephew is sleeping through the night now, and a call to Wes isn't as disruptive.
Wes is tougher than Warner when it comes to me, but he was the next best alternative to my dad. So how the hell did I get stuck with the man who regularly fails to hide his disappointment when he looks at me?
Sheriff Monroe stops on the other side of the table. He holds on to the back of the chair like he did earlier and levels his gaze on mine. My dad, who could just as easily have at least stood on my side of the table, steps up beside the sheriff. Guess I've never really needed to draw a line to know what side my dad's on. It's whatever is opposite mine.
The sheriff says in a tired voice, "We're not arresting you, Wyatt."
I nod, close to telling him I know that already, but keep my mouth shut instead. I might have a quick wit and a smart mouth that's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count, but I know how to harness it. "Thanks, Sheriff."
I dare a glance at my dad. Nothing moves. Not his face. Not his stance. Not even a muscle tic along his jaw. Beau Hayden is a beast of a man, a local legend, and a goddamn living statue.
My chair scrapes its protest as I stand. In this cold, quiet space, the sound bounces off the walls. "Ready to go home?"
My dad's steely-eyed gaze doesn't leave me. "Can we have a minute, Sheriff?"
The sheriff doesn't respond, but his booted retreat speaks his reply. The door closes.
Now the muscles in his face twitch. When we were younger, he'd flick our ears with what felt like the strongest, meanest fingers in the state of Arizona. Misbehavior was avoided because nobody wanted to draw his anger. A lot has changed in twenty years. Somewhere along the way, I stopped giving a fuck.
"Where's Wes?"
He crosses his arms in front of himself, partially covering the HCC insignia on his vest. "Wes doesn't need to come to your rescue. He has a son to raise." He eyes me meaningfully. "And so do I."
I bristle. "I'm an adult."
"A person would be hard-pressed to know it."
I mimic his stance. The last thing I want is to hear from my father how I've managed to disappoint him yet again. "Can we go?"
His lips are drawn in a grim line. "You think drinking and driving is no big deal?"
"I wasn't actually driving. I was sitting."
A terse stream of air huffs from his nose. As sounds go, it's as ubiquitous as his flicking fingers. It means he cannot believe the sheer stupidity of the words you've just spoken.
"Quit playing cute, Son. If Shelby hadn't been there you'd have been driving."
"Does it even matter anymore? It's over."
"What was so important that you were going to do something you know damn well is illegal? Not to mention dangerous."
My lips tighten, an invisible needle and thread sewing a seam.
"Christ," my dad mutters, shaking his head at me. "I already know where you were headed, Wyatt. Just thought maybe you'd do me the courtesy of telling me the truth."
If I told him the truth, Sara would lose her husband, her sole source of income for her and her two kids, and Mickey would go to jail. Should Sara keep absorbing Mickey's liquor-fueled fists? Hell no. That's what I'm for until I can think of a better solution. Until I figure out a way to help Mickey long-term.
