Cold Summer

by Gwen Cole

  Harper pulls away and lets go of my shirt.

  “Don’t be afraid to be you,” she says.

  My heart pounds and my mouth feels dry, so I just nod and get out of the car. I stand by my mailbox and watch her drive away. Now that she’s gone and the memory of the kiss fades, the tight coils return to my stomach.

  I turn and head up the driveway.

  I walk into the house, expecting him to be in the living room or maybe the kitchen, but he’s nowhere. The only light on is the one by the front window, leaving the rest of the rooms dark. It’s so quiet without Bryce here.

  “Dad?”

  Nothing but silence greets me.

  Something doesn’t feel right, but I don’t know what. I survey the room, trying to find any hints of where he could be or what happened.

  An empty beer bottle sits on the coffee table. I head toward the kitchen, flicking lights on as I go. I open the fridge.

  There’s nothing but an empty case of beer. I think I know where he went.

  “Shit.”

  After I slam the fridge shut, I run upstairs and find my keys sitting on my desk. I pull on my sweatshirt, still feeling the chill of winter. Once I get outside again, I notice his truck isn’t in the driveway. Something I should have noticed before but didn’t, only focused on what would happen once I got inside.

  I should have seen the signs before now. Subtle, they may have been, but still there for me to see. Stressed out about work and watching sports. He only watches them when he’s got a bet going.

  Once I’m on the road, I’m blind to any speed limit signs. I take corners too fast and pass in no-passing zones. One hand grips the steering wheel tight and the other one on the gear stick, my foot slamming the clutch without thought. The car thrives at this speed.

  My family would’ve been better off without me—that’s all I can think about. Over and over. Everything I’ve done wrong, and all the times I left them without telling the truth.

  I want to make it right with the only person I have left. Before it’s too late.

  I pull into the bar’s parking lot and kill the engine with the tires screeching to a halt. I don’t even think. I shove my keys in my pocket and head for the door, not at all ready for what I might face. Only knowing I need to make it right.

  The moment I open the door, a rush of noise fills the night. I step inside and stand there, trying to decide if I did the right thing by coming here. The bar is packed with people watching a basketball game and filling the air with cigarette smoke. In the back—near the restrooms and a couple making out—a crowd of people are cheering on someone playing an arcade game.

  I tentatively step forward just as a cocktail waitress walks by me. She takes one glance and stops me with her palm up, her other hand holding a tray of empty glasses.

  “Are you over twenty-one?” she asks, the tone of her voice telling me she already knows the answer.

  “I’m just looking for my dad.”

  “Sorry, kid. Can’t be in here unless you’re twenty-one.” She tries to get the attention of the guy standing behind the bar, probably wanting to throw me out.

  I hold out my hand, attempting to stop her. “Please … I only want to find my dad. I’m not here to drink.”

  The skin on her forehead softens and she takes a look around. Debating. “All right, you have five minutes. And you don’t want me to see you in here a minute past that.”

  “Thank you.” I start to move around her but she stops me.

  “What’s your dad’s name?” she asks.

  “Peter Jackson.”

  She raises an eyebrow, starting to regret even talking to me. “Peter Jackson, like the director?” She points to the door. “Get out.”

  “No, I’m serious.” I start to worry when I see one of the bartenders coming over. “Please, ask anyone who’s worked here for a while. I’m not lying to you.”

  The bartender approaches, eyeing me like I might cause trouble. “Having a problem?”

  The girl answers. “Do you know anyone named Peter Jackson? This kid says it’s his father’s name.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know Peter.” He glances over the heads of people and points down the bar. “He’s down there at the end.”

  He leaves and the cocktail waitress shakes her head. “Sorry. I really thought you were making that up.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not the first time,” I tell her.

  She finally moves away, holding up her hand with her fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” she mouths.

  Walking from one end of the room to the other is harder than it seems. With people moving to and from the bar, others playing drinking games that exceed their table’s limits, people blindsiding me on their way to the bathroom—including two girls with uncanny high heels—I’m lucky to get through unscathed.

  I finally catch a glimpse of Dad.

  He’s sitting at the end, his eyes staring at the television above the bar.

  There’s a half-empty pint of beer within the folds of his hands. I can tell he isn’t drunk yet. It takes a lot more than a few beers to do that.

  “Dad?”

  His head twitches—hearing something he wasn’t expecting. When he turns around and his features soften when he sees me, I don’t know what to think.

  His eyes trail down to my feet and back up again. Everyone cheers at something that happened on the television, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Like he’s afraid I’m going to disappear.

  “You came back,” he says.

  He doesn’t say “you’re here” or “what do you want?”—things I’d been expecting. I’d never considered hearing “you came back,” like I had no intention of doing so. It throws me off.

  “Of course I did.” My forehead creases without my doing. I glance at the beer between his hands. Just when I’m about to say we should go home, everyone yells and boos at the game. Dad turns his head, looking up.

  “Shit,” he mutters. He pulls a few bills from his pocket and slaps them on the bar. He stands up and takes one last drink. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

  “Dad—” I look from him back to the basketball game. “Tell me you didn’t.” His jaw tightens as he shakes his head, more to himself than to me. It’s as though the moment Bryce left, his promise to mom wasn’t valid anymore. “Let’s just go home, okay?” I tell him.

  “The faster the better,” he says, moving in the direction of the door.

  Halfway there, the cocktail waitress walks up, holding two beers in one hand. “Did you find him?”

  I watch him walk out the door and nod. “Yeah, I did. Thank you.”

  “Good. Just don’t come back until you’re twenty-one.” She smiles and moves off.

  I take a deep breath and head for the door. Once I’m outside, where the noise is cut off and the smell of smoke diminished, I see Dad isn’t alone. There are two guys on either side of him, another talking close to his face—one arm completely covered in tattoos.

  I stop short. “Dad?”

  All faces turn to me and Dad takes a step forward. One of the men grabs his arm to stop him. “Kale, just go. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  “No, no, let him stay,” the tattooed man says, eyeing me from under the dim street lamp. It casts a yellow tinge over his skin. “Kale, is it? Do you have the same bad habits as your old man here?”

  The second man holds Dad’s other arm, restraining him even more. Dad says, “Derek, please, just leave him alone.”

  “I don’t know, Peter.” The man—Derek—looks at Dad and back at me. My feet are glued in place. “Maybe this is the only way for you to understand how serious I am. Tell me, Kale. Do you also run away from things you can’t handle?”

  The question hits me harder than if he’d hit me in the stomach. Because even though he doesn’t know anything about me—obviously referring to running away over losing some bets—he’s asking about the very thing I’ve been trying to ignore.

  The fact I’ve been running aw
ay my whole life.

  I catch my father’s eye over his shoulder. Unable to say anything.

  I can’t deny it.

  But my father hasn’t run away from me, so I’m not going to run away from him. Even if he’s made mistakes like I have.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Dad says, trying to get his attention focused on him again. “I’ll get you the money.”

  Derek turns his head ever so slightly, not taking his eyes off me. He steps closer to me, within arm’s reach. “I know you will. But maybe this will remind you not to make bets you can’t pay out on. You know better.”

  A shiver runs up my arms despite the sweatshirt.

  It’s summer.

  I shouldn’t be cold.

  I just got back.

  Before I can prepare myself, Derek’s fist lands hard into my jaw. I stumble back with my vision dark, catching my balance so I don’t fall. Blood pounds hard in my ears, every throb digging into my head. He doesn’t stop. He brings his fist down again, hitting me in the temple and then again in my jaw.

  Fight back, Kale.

  Gathering every spark of anger within me is easier than I ever thought. Because it’s already there. Just waiting for me to take hold of it.

  Before he has the chance to make another hit, I spin upward, catching him off guard. My fist slams into his jaw and then again in his stomach. I ignore my aching knuckles and throbbing head. I can only focus on what his next move will be.

  I don’t care if I lose as long as I fight.

  Just like being in the midst of war, I use my fear to make my head clear and my thoughts quick. It doesn’t help that he outweighs me by one-hundred pounds and has more experience fighting than me. It only brings my thoughts to a better place.

  After I take another hard hit, I’m on the ground. My palms pressed against the asphalt with my head hanging low. I taste blood and spit it out. The edges of Derek’s boots stop next to me. I can’t breathe, so I can’t move.

  He hooks one hand under my belt and uses the other to grab the back of my sweatshirt, throwing me farther into the parking lot, where I’m finally brought down.

  Even though I lost, it felt good to fight back.

  Over where Dad is, the sounds of a scuffle breaks the night air and he rushes toward me—one man trying to stop him and the other already bleeding—when he stops abruptly. He’s breathing heavy with rage.

  I don’t know why he stopped until I look up.

  Derek has a barrel of a black gun pointed at me. Only inches away from my head.

  “You move, he dies,” he says. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  My cheek is pressed against the uneven pavement and my body weighs down like there’s lead in my veins. I’m not sure if I have the strength to get up.

  Derek is talking to Dad again, words I no longer hear or care to be a part of. Everything is spinning and it won’t stop.

  The gun is still pointed at me. I can feel it.

  There’s an uncomfortable lump between my hip and the ground. It triggers something I almost wish it hadn’t.

  It’s my car keys.

  I shift my eyes and see it parked barely twenty feet away.

  “Wait,” I say, my voice cracking, barely loud enough to grab his attention. But he stops talking and looks down at me. Maybe he’ll shoot me before I can even speak again.

  “You have something to say, kid?” he asks.

  Somewhere inside me, in a place I didn’t know existed, I find the reserve strength to push myself up far enough to lift my head off the ground, though it’s pounding with too much blood. I close my eyes briefly and breathe out slow, willing the pain to stay inside of me.

  “Take my car,” I say, finally opening my eyes.

  He looks at me like I’m a waste of his time. “Which one is it?”

  I nod in the direction, unable to move my arms.

  “That little Fastback piece of shit?” he asks, grinning like it’s a joke. “Nice try kid, but I’m not stupid.”

  He starts to turn and I say, “Just look under the hood.”

  Derek only hesitates for a second before motioning to one of the guys behind him. He’s the one who’s bleeding, blood still dripping from his nose. He crouches over me, roughly patting down my pockets until he finds my keys.

  As I stare down at the asphalt, I hear the familiar squeak of the hood as he lifts it. I can’t bear the thought of them driving away in it. I look up in time to see the man smile and nod to Derek, shutting the hood and spinning the keys around his finger.

  “Huh, I didn’t see that one coming,” he says happily. He lowers the gun and backs away toward my car. He glances at Dad. “Make sure I don’t see you again, Jackson.”

  Then they’re gone. Taking two cars with them instead of one.

  I feel like I might hurl.

  Dad approaches me carefully—like he’s not sure he should be near me—and helps me up on the curb, where I hang my head between my knees and watch the blood drip down. I feel him next to me—tense, not knowing what to do.

  I don’t know what to do either.

  When he tries to touch my head, I brush him away. “Don’t,” I say. “Just leave it.”

  “You’re hurt.” Dad rubs a hand over his face, his gaze settling on me after looking everywhere else. “This will never seem like enough, but …” He’s struggling to say the words. “I’m so sorry, Kale.” A strangled sound comes from his throat, and his eyes are wet with tears.

  I’ve never seen my dad cry before. Not ever.

  Dads are supposed to be invincible. They’re supposed to be a rock through hard times and be strong when no one else is. But life throws punches to even the strongest people.

  He continues, “I’ve made mistakes in my life, but never one as big as not trying harder with you and then putting you in danger tonight.” He turns his head, and I can see the shine in his eyes. “And I didn’t realize it until I saw you standing in the bar tonight. After Bryce left a few days ago, it suddenly hit me that my entire family had left me. And I was sure that you did, too. I didn’t think you were coming back, and I could only blame myself for that.”

  For what everything is worth, I can’t be mad at him for the way things turned out between us. He’s human, just like me. We’ve both made mistakes and have to live with them.

  I’m in need of a second chance as much as he is.

  “But I always come back,” I remind him. I never knew until now how important it was to him that I did. “And I always will. You know that.”

  “You’re right, you do,” he says, attempting to smile. “I think people make bad decisions when they’re scared. And for me, I was scared you wouldn’t come back. I wondered every morning if I would see you again. Why did you keep coming back?” His jaw flexes and his eyes roam the night, maybe looking at something I can’t see. “I don’t deserve you, Kale.”

  His eyes search me—asking.

  “Because you’re my dad. And this is my home.” My jaw throbs in pain when I talk. I try to ignore it and the reason it came to be. “I still remember when we used to play catch in the back field—especially in the late evening when the mosquitoes were the worst. And when I helped you with the truck when it broke down, even though I didn’t know a thing back then. I hold onto those things, because I want to believe we can be like that again.”

  I look away, unable to meet his gaze when I tell him something I never thought I would again. Something I have to tell him, because if I don’t now, I might not ever.

  “I came home tonight wanting to talk to you,” I say. “About why I’ve been leaving so often.”

  He’s silent next to me, and I need him to believe me so badly. But I’m not sure if I know the right words to say.

  “You know what, I’m going to stop you right there,” he says, and I feel like nothing is ever going to change between us and he’ll never believe me. Then he says something else—“Bryce talked to me before he left.” Dad looks at me hard, making sure I’m listening. “He
told everything you’ve been trying to get me to believe for the past ten years. And I’m so, so sorry I didn’t take your word for it, Kale. Trust me, I almost didn’t believe him, either, but then he starting telling me these stories nobody could make up.”

  My thoughts take a moment to catch up and understand what he just said. Bryce told him? I can’t believe he did it. Especially after how I left things between us. But maybe that’s why he did—his way of apologizing.

  I shake my head. “So … you really believe me? For real?”

  He nods. “I really do. Doesn’t seem possible, but that’s who you are, isn’t it? Someone who does the impossible.”

  “No, I’m just kid who can’t control the one thing he does have.”

  All the stress I’ve had is suddenly gone. Dad knows. He knows, and he seems okay with it. Right now, even if it’s for this small moment, everything else doesn’t matter.

  Dad says, “So these last few days, you’ve been—”

  “In the past,” I finish, unable to hold back my smile. “Sounds crazy, right?” I reach inside my shirt for my dog tags and pull them over my head. When I hand them to Dad, he tentatively takes them, rubbing his thumb over the indented letters. He stares at them for the longest time.

  Then he looks up and says, “I think it’s safe to say I didn’t see this coming.” He gives my dog tags back. “My grandfather had dog tags just like those. I used to look at them while he told his old war stories.” Dad pauses. “I’m sorry you’ve been having to go through this alone, but you’re not alone anymore. Okay? You can talk to me whenever you need to.”

  I’ve been waiting to hear those words for years, and I lean in to hug him in response, my throat choked up too much to talk. Another thing I’ve been waiting to do for a long time.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He nods. “As you can imagine, I have more questions for you. But they can wait for later.”

  He helps me to my feet and we climb into his truck. I’ve never felt so tired in my life. Not just from the beating I took, but for the relief I have now that he knows. I might even be able to sleep tonight.