We drink in silence for a while longer. I can see the tension starting to ease from his shoulders, the hard lines of his face softening slightly. He’s still hurting, but he’s not on the verge of shattering anymore.
I catch Keith’s eye and gesture him over. I pull two hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and slide them across the bar. “Get him whatever he wants,” I tell the bartender, my voice low. “But call me if he gets stupid. Or if he tries to leave.”
Keith nods, his expression understanding. “You got it, Sheriff.”
I finish my drink and stand up. “I’ve got to get going,” I say to Liam. “But I’ll check on you later.”
He nods, his gaze already lost in the amber depths of his glass. “Thanks.”
I stop at the counter on my way out and grab a pizza, the cardboard box warm in my hands. The snow has let up a little, the sky clearing to reveal a smattering of stars.
As I drive home, the smell of pepperoni and cheese filling the car, I think about my daughter. Pizza and a movie. A normal night in a town that’s anything but. And for a little while, that’s enough.
The ring of the phone at three in the morning is a sound designed to inspire dread. It cuts through the silence of the house, a sharp, insistent shriek that yanks me from a fitful sleep. I’m up before my eyes are fully open, my heart already pounding a frantic beat against my ribs.
I grab the phone from the nightstand, the screen blindingly bright in the darkness. The caller ID reads BAR 2.0. I swear under my breath. Keith.
“Sheriff,” I say, my voice rough with sleep. I don’t need to ask. I already know.
“He’s had a few,” Keith says, his tone a mixture of apology and exasperation. “A lot, actually. He’s not causing any trouble, just... talking about his dad and some girl. He’s a mess, Sheriff. I think he’s about to pass out.”
“I’m on my way,” I say, already swinging my legs out of bed. I pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, the fabric cold against my skin.
I pause by Clara’s door, my hand resting on the handle. I don’t want to leave her alone in the middle of the night, but I can’t leave Liam out there either. It’s a choice between two kinds of responsibility, and the one that’s currently drunk and vulnerable in a bar takes precedence.
The drive to Bar 2.0 is surreal. The town is asleep, buried under a blanket of fresh snow, the streetlights casting a lonely, hazy glow.
I find Liam slumped over the bar, his head resting on his arms, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. He’s muttering something, his words slurred and indistinct.
“Come on, Bennett,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Time to go.”
He stirs, lifting his head with a groan. His eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused. “Sheriff,” he says, a sloppy, drunken grin spreading across his face. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Let’s get you home,” I say, my patience wearing thin. It’s a struggle to get him upright, his body a dead weight against mine. He leans on me heavily, his breath smelling of whiskey. I half-carry, half-drag him out to the car, his boots scraping against the pavement.
By the time I get him back to my place, it’s four-thirty in the morning. He’s passed out in the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window. It takes another monumental effort to get him out of the car and into the house.
I manage to maneuver him onto the couch, where he collapses with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the cushions. I pull off his boots and cover him with a blanket. He’s out, lost in a drunken stupor, a temporary escape from the pain that’s waiting for him when he wakes up.
I stand there for a moment, looking down at him. He’s just a kid, really. A kid who’s been dealt a shit hand, who’s carrying the trauma of his father’s sins and a broken heart. And I know all about that. I’ve carried it myself.
The next morning, I’m woken up not by my alarm but by the sound of loud, uninhibited laughter. It’s a bright, happy sound, completely out of place in the quiet of the early morning.
I blink my eyes open, my mind still fuzzy with sleep. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure of where the sound is coming from. Then I hear it again, followed by a triumphant shout.
I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting with every movement. I walk into the living room, and the sight that greets me stops me in my tracks. Clara and Liam are sitting on the couch, their heads bent together over a phone. They’re laughing, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen, their fingers tapping away in a furious, competitive dance.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough.
“Hey, Dad,” Clara says, looking up from the phone with a bright smile. She’s holding a mug of coffee, her purple-tipped hair piled up on her head in a messy bun. She takes a sip, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
I walk over and take the coffee cup from her, chugging it down in one long swallow. The hot, bitter liquid is a welcome jolt to my system.
“How are you?” I ask, my gaze shifting from Clara to Liam.
“I’m good,” she says, grinning. “Just kicking Liam’s ass.”
“Hey, language,” we both say in unison.
