Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
The thought sits in my stomach like a stone, heavy and unwelcome.
I don’t know the answer.
And it fucking kills me.
For the first time in my life, I have to stop. To think and try to understand instead of react.
I fucking hate it.
I feel Caleb’s eyes on me from behind the bar before he even says a word. I’m aware of everything tonight—the weight of my own body in this chair, the burn of whisky down my throat, the fucking hollowness stretching wide inside me. So when he finally speaks, it doesn’t startle me.
“Hey, man,” he says.
I lift my head. My body is slow and heavy, like it resents being pulled back to reality. I meet his gaze, and he immediately hesitates, stepping back a little like he just realized he approached a caged animal.
“Uh, sorry,” he mutters, glass in hand, rubbing at it with a clean white towel. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, it’s fine.” My voice is rough, and I sigh out a breath, running a hand down my face. “Just noodling on a puzzle I’m not sure I can solve tonight. What’s up?”
Caleb keeps rubbing at the glass, even though it’s already bone dry. “Well, the other day, Moira mentioned you do some volunteer work at the prisons? I was wondering if you ever go down to the state prison near Waco.”
My mind sharpens, the mental haze clearing just enough to latch onto something that isn’t Moira. A problem that isn’t my own.
“Is that where your father’s at?” I ask.
He nods but doesn’t look at me. Just keeps polishing. “Yeah.”
I watch him for a long beat, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tighten around the glass like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“Have you changed your mind about visiting him?” I ask.
He shrugs. Stares down. The silence stretches long enough that I could leave it there and let it drop. But I’ve been a pastor long enough to recognize shame when I see it. I know that look. I see it in the mirror every goddamn day.
“It’s my fault he’s there,” Caleb says in a rush. “And I— I just don’t know how to face him.”
I don’t press. I’ve heard it before—people thinking if they’d just done something, just reached out, they could have stopped a desperate family member before it was too late. As if they had some kind of divine foresight, like they were supposed to know what was coming.
“That’s okay,” I say. “You know that, don’t you? I know everyone was pressuring you the other night. But it’s fine if you don’t know how to feel right now.”
Caleb exhales, the sound short and sharp, like a laugh that got choked on the way out. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes darting to the left. I catch the sheen in them before he looks away, the flicker of tears he’s trying his damnedest to fight.
Fuck.
The way his pain sits right there, just under the surface, makes something claw up my throat. Seeing his pain so close to the surface drags up mine. The grief I’ve been pretending I’m dealing with when all I’ve really done is shove it further down.
Quinn was right.
I am a fucking coward.
The man standing in front of me is doing a better job confronting his demons than I am.
“I guess that’s what you’re doing right now, huh?” I say, clearing my throat. “Talking to someone.”
Caleb lets out a short, wet laugh and swipes his forearm across his eyes. The universal fucking sign of men everywhere trying to pretend they’re fine.
“I could take a trip down to Waco and check in on him,” I offer.
The words are out before I fully think them through, but I don’t regret them. Not when the alternative is sitting in my own misery, waiting for answers that won’t come. At least this is something tangible. Something I can fucking do.
“Yeah?” Caleb looks at me, eyes wide—the first time he’s looked me in the eye this entire conversation. “Oh my god, man, you’d save my fuckin’ life. That would be amazing. I just want to know he’s okay and—” He swallows again, looking away. “And for him to know that I love him. That I’m pulling for him. And that I’m so fucking sorry.”
I nod, feeling the weight of his words, of his guilt, of his pain. They settle into the air between us, heavy and unspoken.
They’re his words, but they might as well be mine.
Wherever you are, Moira, I love you. I’m pulling for you. And I’m so fucking sorry.
FIFTY-THREE
MOIRA
Bar-crawling on 6th Street on a Friday night is practically a fucking tradition in Austin. They close the whole street to traffic, turning it into a river of sweaty bodies and pulsing music spilling from bar to club to rooftop to gutter.