“You’re writing about your dad?” I ask quietly.
He nods, and my chest squeezes tight.
Suddenly, I’ve never felt more like a parent. Because my heart just fucking broke in the middle of a goddamn In-N-Out, watching a kid I love fall apart.
And I haven’t a clue what to say or do to make it better.
Cole’s shoulders shake as he cries.
I sit patiently with him, stabbing a napkin into the corners of my eyes to keep it together.
Part of me wants to tell him it’s okay.Don’t do the assignment. Don’t go to class. It’s fine.
But the other part—the part that missed having a father in these moments, someone to guide me or give words of advice—that part wants to do better for Cole.
He stills, then finally sits up, swiping at his cheeks.
“Hey,” I say. “Why don’t you gather up your food. We’ll go sit in the car and finish.”
We grab the rest of our dinner and head to the Porsche.
Once inside, we eat in silence, aside from the occasional sniffle from Cole. I stare out the windshield, my mind scrambling for some kind of wisdom,anythingthat might actually help him navigate his grief instead of suppressing it and pretending it isn’t there.
“You know,” I start, not even sure where I’m going. “Life sucks sometimes. It’s unfair. It’s hard.” I glance at him. “And there’s nothing we can do about that.” I swallow. “And your dad dying?” The words catch, and I take a second to breathe through it. “Shit, Cole… that sucks. It really fucking sucks. It’s not fair. Not even a little.”
His eyes shine, and I keep going before I lose my nerve.
“It’s okay to be mad. Or sad. Or both. Life took the most important person in your world from you.” I turn toward him. “Your hero.”
He nods, sniffing hard.
The silence hangs thick in the air while I gather my composure.
My chin quivers, and I take a slow breath. “He was my hero, too,” I say quietly.
He looks up at me, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“But do you know what life can’t take from you?”
“What?” he whispers.
“How you remember him. How you carry him with you.” I pause. “Every day, you get to decide what his name means moving forward.”
He brings the inside of his collar to his nose and wipes.
“Look, you don’t have to write about your dad for this assignment. Not if you don’t want to.” I meet his eyes. “But if you do? I can’t think of a better way to honor him than telling people why he was your hero.” I nod methodically. “It’s going to be tough as hell. But if anyone can do it, it’s you.” I hesitate, then add, “I’ll help… if you want. And I’m always here. No matter what.”
He takes a moment before he says anything. Then, finally, he says so quiet I barely hear him, “Thanks, Matt.”
“Anytime, bud.” I reach across the console and pat his back. “Now eat up. There’s a spot on your sleeve that’s still dry, and it’s begging to try that sauce.”
He huffs out a sound that’s halfway to a laugh, followed by a small smile.
I don’t know if what I said matters, or if it helped. But I feel closer to Cole than I did five minutes ago, and that’s something I never felt with my dad, growing up.
I watch as he takes a big sloppy bite, and for the first time since Nate died, I think I might actually be able to figure this whole parenting thing out.
Chapter Forty-One
