When I hold up the black silk tie for him, I see heat flare in his eyes. “I’ll try,” he says, voice going low on purpose. “But if it gets tangled around my wrists, I won’t be able to do anything about it.You might have to help me out of it, sir,” he says, holding his wrist up, with sad puppy dog eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, slapping him on the ass. “How about this? Tonight, you can help take it off, and if it so happens to get tangled around your wrists…” I lean in real close and whisper in his ear. “I’ll take advantage of the situation.”
He lets out a shuddering breath and fumbles with the tie before clearing his throat and gathering his wits about him. “Well now, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
He finishes the tie, pulling it tight against my throat, and I raise a brow. He winks, then loosens it slightly before brushing off my shoulders. Cheeky little mouse.
“Are you ready? Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“I have it written down. I’m ready to put this part of my life behind me for good.” I give him one last kiss, lacing my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, holding him to me like a lifeline. The only lifeline I’ll ever need.
“Walk me through the morning?” I ask, keeping it practical as we make our way to the parole hearing. “We drive over… I can wait in the hall unless you want me inside.”
“Inside,” he says, and I hear how much he means it. “I want to see you when I sit down. If my hands shake, you’ll know why. If I look at the floor, I’m just… gathering strength.”
“I’ll be right there.” I give his hand a squeeze. “We breathe together. Then we eat something greasy and judgmental.”
A laugh breaks out of him, surprise and relief in one sound. “Deal.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence, giving Dom time to be in his thoughts. It’s not until we’re in the parking lot that he speaks again.
“I keep flashing between two pictures,” he says. “Me in that chair, talking, and me staying home, pretending it’s not my problem. One is loud. The other is… not brave.”
“You’re allowed to use your voice,” I tell him. “You’re also allowed to want to be brave.”
“I want both.”
“Then do the brave thing for thirty minutes,” I say. “Then, when we get home, it won’t be your problem anymore.”
The knot in his jaw loosens. “Being with you makes me braver.”
“Dom, you’ve always been brave. It took guts to hop on a train, not knowing if safety awaited you. Now you just have someone holding your hand while you do it. But the bravery has always been you.”
I give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Come on, let’s go. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can tie me up.” I wink, and he lets out a full belly laugh.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
Inside, the building is colder than it needs to be, and the carpet absorbs sound, leaving an eerie quiet. We check in. The clerk’s dismissive, as expected. I brush my knuckles against his, just a touch, just enough. His posture eases a bit.
Outside the hearing room, he reads the letter one last time. No flourishes, just facts and what he made of his life around them. His father will be on a screen, not in the room. It helps, but I don’t think it’s enough to erase the old reflexes.
I’m humbled he even wants me here and inside the room, not just on standby with coffee. When Dom first started shadowing me, digging for what really happened in LA, I was sure he’d never stop seeing me as a kid who needed a handler. I was furious about it too—at him, at everyone, at myself. But standing in this hallway, watching him pace, I can admit the thing I couldn’t then. I was the one treating myself like a kid. I’d been waiting for permission to live the life I wanted, instead of making choices and owning them.
My father used to tell me, “Son, you’re going to make an amazing chef someday. I can’t wait to see you in your chef’s jacket.”
When he died, I wanted to fulfill his dream for me. I wanted todon the pristine white coat. But I failed to take in who my father was as he said those words. I can see it now the blinders are off. He never would’ve cared where I wore the jacket. I could have never worn it outside my own kitchen, and he would have been proud.
I look up. Dom is doing that purposeful pacing thing… three steps down the hall, pivot, three steps back, shoulders tight, tie perfect, eyes not quite landing on anything. I hate that he never got what I had: a dad who made love feel like air you didn’t have to earn. He provided me with the oxygen so I could breathe. I hate that some of our friends didn’t have that either.
But then I realize we’ve built something better. Love and acceptance from a family that was of our own choosing. We have a family that shows up on purpose.
I cross the hall and catch his wrist. “Hey,” I say, light as I can make it. “Breathe with me.”
He does, and the line of his jaw softens a notch. “I want to yell and scream and punch him in the face… but I also want to go home and hide.”
“Both make sense,” I say. “But whichever you pick, you’re not doing it alone.”
