I slammed him into the car door. The metal thudded, and I pinned him there, my grip locked tight.
“Have you been following me?”
“Not following,” he said. “Just concerned.”
“Concerned?” I scoffed. “You’re about twenty-eight years too late for that.”
He nodded once. “I know. What I did to you was unforgivable,and I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to win you back. I’m trying to save you.”
“From what?”
“Becoming me.”
“Oh,” I laughed bitterly. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Just like you with the walking, I went too far and couldn’t find my way back. I’m afraid you’re heading down the same road.”
“I’d rather die first.”
“Scott, please,” he said, hands raised. “Just listen to me for one second.”
“No. You listen tome.” I shoved him against the car again. “I’m more of a man—more of a father—than you’ll ever be.”
He watched me calmly. “Are you?”
“It’s not hard,” I said through clenched teeth. “All I had to do to be better than you was not leave.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.”
“You say that now,” he said, “but the farther you get from the people you love, the easier it is to keep going. I know.”
My hands twitched with the urge to hit him, to shut him up for good.
“You’re already doing it, Scott,” he said. “Just like I did. You think I didn’t start walking away long before I packed a bag? Open your eyes. You’ve already got one foot out the door.”
I hated that there was some truth in that. With every mile behind me, I felt less tethered.
But no. I knew who my people were.
I leaned in. “I will never be you.”
“Prove it,” he said.
I backed away until there was a safe distance. Then I turned and walked—only this time in the right direction. Toward home. Toward my wife. Toward the children I could still reach.
I wasn’t him.
I wasn’t my father.
History would not repeat itself.
I knewsomething was wrong the second I stepped inside. Not the obvious wrong; not the kind that screamed. This was quieter than that. The house had always been cluttered when Michelle ran it—piles of mail, shoes by the door, a half-dozen projects going at once—but it was clean. Lived in. Alive. This wasn’t that.
The sink was full. Not a dish or two, but full. Plates stacked at odd angles, glasses cloudy with residue. The trash sat by the back door in black bags that had been tied, then abandoned. The blinds were drawn in every room, shutting out the light like it wasn’t welcome anymore. The air felt stale and heavy, like the house itself had stopped breathing.
A house for the dead.
