Stupid.
The casino appears like a mirage in the darkness. Bright lights and neon signs advertising cheap buffets and loose slots, it glows with false promise. The parking lot is half empty on aSaturday night. Cars scattered across spaces marked with fading paint.
I park. Sit for a moment. Try to breathe.
Conrad’s words from Seattle echo:Pushing someone away because you’re scared doesn’t protect you. It just makes you alone.
But I’m not pushing anyone away. I’m just dealing with my father. Again. Like I always do. Alone. Because that’s how this works.
I get out of the car, the cold air biting, the wind clawing at my face. The casino entrance smells like cigarette smoke and hope that’s gone rancid—desperate. Inside, it’s worse. Stale air thick with smoke, faded carpets stained with use, the electronic chime of slot machines, flashing lights everywhere—reds and blues and golds—designed to disorient and excite and keep people gambling past the point of reason.
The security manager is waiting near the entrance. He looks tired, his hair thinning, deep lines across his face. He extends his hand.
“Mr. Kane. Thank you for coming.”
“Where is he?”
“Blackjack tables. Section C. We’ve asked him to stop playing, but he’s insisting he’s about to win it all back.”
Of course he is.
We weave through the casino floor. Past elderly people feeding quarters into slot machines like it’s their job. Past a bachelorette party laughing too loudly at a craps table. Past a man who looks like he’s been sitting at the same poker machine for three days straight.
And there, at a blackjack table with two other players who look deeply uncomfortable, is my father.
He looks terrible. Worse than at the hospital in Seattle. Rumpled suit jacket. Tie loosened and crooked. One armstill strapped with a sling. Hair uncombed. Face flushed—drunk, definitely drunk. His eyes have that manic brightness that means he’s convinced himself that the next hand will fix everything.
“Dad.”
He looks up. His face transforms—relief, joy, desperation all at once. “Brody! I knew you’d come. Listen, I just need a small loan. Tiny. Five thousand. I’m so close to breaking even. One more hand?—”
“How much does he owe?” I ask the manager, ignoring my father.
“Twelve thousand. Credit line he opened tonight using your name as reference.”
My jaw clenches so hard I might crack a tooth. Of course he did.
“But we need it settled before we can release him.”
My father is standing now, unsteady on his feet. “Brody, son, please. It’s just bad luck. It happens. You understand?—”
“No.” The word comes out cold. Hard. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother would have?—”
“Don’t.” I step closer. Lower my voice. “Don’t you dare bring her into this. Mom would have wanted you to get help. Real help. Not enablement.”
He flinches like I hit him. “I’m trying. You don’t know?—”
“I know you’re drunk. I know you’re gambling. I know you used my name to open credit you can’t pay back.” I’m shaking. From anger or hurt or exhaustion, I don’t know anymore. “I know you called me here to clean up your mess. Again.”
“I’m your father?—”
“Then act like it.” The words explode out. Louder than I intended. A few people at nearby tables turn to look. “Act like a father instead of a disaster I have to manage. Act like someone who cares about something other than the next bet.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to suffocate in. The slot machines keep chiming. Someone at another table whoops with excitement. The world keeps spinning, moving faster and faster, but mine has stopped, leaving me dizzy. Sick.
“Mr. Kane,” Michael says quietly. “Can we settle this?”
