Apologies feel fake—just a Band-Aid. No one ever means it when they say they’re sorry; it’s just something said to appease the other person and move on.
My father said he was sorry, too. Right after he shot my mother in the head. He didn’t mean it. He was just fucking with us one last time. All that “sorry, boys” did was fuck me up more, as if what he did wasn’t bad enough. He’s ruined so many things for me—somany. And maybe therapy would be beneficial, but therapists all feel so… distant. How am I supposed to spill all this to a complete stranger and expect them to give a shit when my own husband doesn’t? How do I tell a stranger the most fucked up thing that’s ever happened to me and expect it to make me feel better? Getting it off my chest won’t make me feel better; I just want someone to give a fuck about what happened to me. But caring isn’t free these days. Everyone wants something in return.
Hey, maybe I am spiraling. Maybe Franklin is right…
I pick up my phone to call Miles—because I’m the selfish one and I know he will make me feel better. Even if he doesn’t say a word, just knowing he’s there will help me. And if he’s sleeping, well, at least I’m consistent.
“Hello?” he answers.
His tone is colder than usual. He doesn’t sound like he was sleeping, but definitely guarded, like maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me but feels obligated to answer, anyway.
I should apologize… I should. And it’s not that I won’t mean it, because I would, but that word…
“I set up my TV, finally,” I say instead. Deflecting as usual.
“Oh?” He sounds slightly humored. “That’s a good thing to check off your new house to-do list.”
I huff a laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He’s silent.
Apologize, JJ. Just say sorry.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come by the station again with your nephew. The guys really liked having him there.”
“Did they? I felt like we were in the way.”
“Hell no,” I say. “They love when kids stop by. It’s good for them to understand how important our job is.”
“Are you trying to recruit my seven-year-old nephew?”
“Was there any question it’s what he would do anyway?”
He groans. “Don’t ever say that in front of my sister.”
I understand how that could be scary for a parent to hear. I’ve heard it plenty of times over the years from different people—parents thanking us but telling us they never understood how our parents sleep at night. Sometimes they’d say things like “I don’t understand how your parents allowed you to do this.”
Because I’m an adult and I make my own decisions... And also, my parents are dead so they can’t care about what I’m doing. Not that my father would if he were alive. My mother, though… if she were alive, I never would have caused her the stress of doing this job. I would have done something safe. What? I don’t know. Whatever she wanted, I guess.
“I won’t. Promise.”
So easy to saythatword, though? So easy to promise something, but apologizing is impossible?
Pathetic.
“Thank you,” he says. “She brings it up at least once a week and almost sends herself into a panic attack over it.”
“It’s a dangerous job, so I understand that. I bet my mom would be worried too.”
“Would be?”
Fuck. Did I say that?
“Uh, yeah. She died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My parents died too.”
I remember him telling me that before… at the bar, maybe?
