“Obviously, the police came.”
I pull the truck over to the side of the road, suddenly fearful of what Parker might say in school today. “It was just a misunderstanding. Adult stuff.”
“Oh,” she says.
I twist around in my seat to face her. “Look, Park, I need you to do me a favor and keep what happened last night between us. Can you do that?”
“Like a secret?” she asks.
Okay, I get it. She’s mad at me. I turn back around to face the steering wheel, frustrated and having no idea how to handle any of this. I pull away from the side of the road and continue toward the school, keeping silent, which I rarely do.
Parker knows there’s a reason I’m not speaking because the second we turn into the looping line at the school, she says, “I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone about last night.”
I hate that I have to ask her to hide something. It doesn’t feel right, but at the same time, God knows what will happen if she tells anyone I attacked a man wearing a scarf over his head.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling up to the line where the parking lot volunteer is waiting. “I love you, Park.”
“Love you, Dad.” My heart breaks when she steps out of the truck and clutches the book to her chest as she slowly walks into school. I’m hurting her.
It’s hard to focus when I leave the school area. I feel like I’ve screwed up a hundred times in the past day, and I don’t know how to fix it. How can I take care of two kids and a wife if I can’t handle myself?
I pick up my phone and hit Brody’s number. We used to carpool the girls together, but Hannah is in middle school now, so the schedule doesn’t work out anymore. “What’s up, bro?”
“Do you have a few?” I ask. “Can you meet me for coffee or something?”
“Are you okay?” Brody asks. He’s asking because I don’t usually call him out of the blue to have coffee.
“No, I need to talk to you. Nothing is wrong, I just—”
“Meet me at Dunkin’ at ten,” he says.
“I’ll be there.”
I’m only a few minutes away from Dunkin’. I pull in before he does and grab a couple of coffees and snatch up the last table in the corner. He walks in, looking like he didn’t sleep last night.
I lift my hand, so he sees me, and he nods with acknowledgement as he walks over. He fixes his backward hat, so the rim is sitting lower at the base of his neck. “You look like hell,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve had a stupid head cold all week. I’m fine.”
I hand him his coffee. “Well, don’t breathe near me then.”
“I won’t breathe at all. How about that?”
The banter never ends between the two of us. It’s easier to have a conversation about nothing than a real conversation about something I never talk about. “Sounds good,” I continue.
“What’s going on? You—look like hell too, and I don’t think you’re sick.”
I take a sip from my steaming cup before speaking. “I almost got arrested last night.”
Brody nearly spits a mouthful of coffee out. He squeezes his eyes shut to swallow the hot liquid; then, his mouth falls open. “Say what? You? What the hell could you have done?” Brody is the typical older brother who enjoys making me feel like a weak nerd in his presence. Maybe it was the case when we were younger, but I think I’ve proven myself since then. Although, not in the sense that I would get myself nearly arrested.
“I—ah—saw a man wearing a shemagh over his face in a restaurant last night.”
“A shemagh?” Brody questions.
“The patterned scarves people from the Middle East often wear.”
“Shit,” Brody says, releasing a heavy sigh. “What happened?”
