Did you know your sister cleans up after several men who don’t know how to lift a damn finger? And no one has probably ever told her thank you. Thank you, Sloan.

Your sister’s ring finger looks beautiful and bare today.

I like your sister. A lot.

After about an hour, a nurse comes in and interrupts the game to take Stephen to physical therapy.

“Is the social worker in today?” Sloan asks.

The nurse shakes her head. “Not on Sundays. But I’ll leave a note in her box when he’s finished with therapy so she’ll know to contact you tomorrow.”

Sloan tells her that would be great and then she walks over to give Stephen a hug. When she’s finished with her goodbye, I’m honestly not sure what to do. I don’t want to pretend I’m an expert at interacting with individuals like Stephen, but I also don’t want to do something I shouldn’t do.

“Does he shake hands?” I ask Sloan.

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t really let anyone but me touch him.” She slips her hand through mine.

“It was nice meeting you, Stephen,” I say to him. Sloan grabs her purse and we begin to walk out of the room so the nurse can do what she needs to do to prepare him for therapy. When we’re almost to the door, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find Stephen standing in front of me, eyes on the floor, feet rocking back and forth. He hands me the pen and a blank sheet of paper. I take it from him, not really knowing how to tell him we’re leaving and we can’t keep playing.

I glance at Sloan to see what she wants me to do, and I’m confused by her expression. Stephen walks back into the living room, away from us. I look down at the blank sheet of paper and pen.

“He wants you to come back,” she whispers. When I glance up at her again, she’s smiling, shaking her head back and forth. “I’ve never seen that happen before, Carter.” She covers her mouth with her hand and lets out a mixture of what might could be both a laugh and a cry. “He likes you.”

I look back at Stephen and his back is to us now. When I look back at Sloan, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me, then leads me out of the room. I fold up the paper and slip it and the pen in my back pocket.

I don’t know what I was expecting today, but it certainly wasn’t that.

I’m glad I came, but now it’s not only because of Sloan.

 Asa-31

Asa

I remember this being a hell of a lot more fun last month.

I double down on the bet and run my hand through my hair, squeezing the back of my neck. I’m hungry. I look over at Kevin and Dalton who are engrossed in conversation with some bartender who looks more like a girl Jon would take behind the building than either of them would entertain.

The only reason why Jon probably isn’t fucking her behind the building right now is because he left with two lot lizards from the truck stop next door. Probably took them to the men’s room. Which surprises me that he was even able to do that with the way his face is puffed up like a fucking blueberry.

He should be back by now, though, because I’m pretty sure he can’t last more than two minutes with a chick. There were two of them. That’s only four minutes, but I haven’t seen him in over an hour.

Where the hell is he?

I look around and when I don’t see him in the vicinity, I cash out my chips. I yell across the table-over the obnoxious fucking slot machine bells-and tell Dalton and Kevin I’m going to look for Jon. Dalton nods.

I make it to the other side of the casino without finding him. I turn back and walk past a blackjack table when my eyes fall on a guy slurring something to the dealer. “Every time I come to this goddamn casino, I see the same miserable motherfuckers hunched over these tables, handing over their hard-earned wages to you goddamn motherfuckers and you just keep taking. Taking, taking, taking.”

The dealer scoops the chips out from in front of the guy. A man across the table says, “And nine times out of the ten that miserable motherfucker is you.”

I laugh and make eye contact with the man who just spoke.

I stop laughing.

He glances away from me without even a flash of recognition.

The guy doing the complaining pushes his stool away from the table and stands. He points at the guy I’m staring at and says, “You got lucky, Paul. That’s all. Won’t last.”

I’m clenching my fists so hard, I’m drawing blood. I can feel it seeping out of my palm.

I didn’t even have to hear his name confirmed to know it was him. A son doesn’t forget his father.

No matter how easy it was for that father to forget his son.

I turn my back to him and wipe the blood from my hand onto the leg of my jeans. I pull my phone out and do a quick Google search. After a few minutes of scrolling through the results and glancing back and forth from him to my phone, I finally find what I’m looking for.

The motherfucker was paroled last year.

I slide my phone into my pocket and walk over to the empty seat across from him. I’ve never been this tense, but it isn’t because I’m scared of what he’ll do to me anymore. I’m tense, because I’m scared of what I want to do to him. I lay down my bet and try not to make it obvious that I’m staring, but he isn’t paying me any attention. He’s focused on the dealer.

His hair is so thin, he might even be considered bald if it wasn’t for the last few strands he’s pathetically holding on to. I run my hand through my hair. It feels as thick as it always has.

Maybe he lost his hair because of stress and it isn’t hereditary. God I hope nothing about this man is hereditary, he looks like a fucking waste of space.

I remember my father being much taller. Much broader. Much more intimidating. I’m a little disappointed.

Actually, I’m a lot disappointed. I’ve always hated the motherfucker, but the memories I have of him made me think he was invincible. Which made me feel like maybe I got a little of that from him. But seeing how he’s turned out really puts a fucking wrinkle in my pride.

“Hey, kid,” he says, snapping his bony fingers. “You got a smoke?”

My eyes meet his and he’s staring at me, trying to bum a cigarette off of his only fucking child, and he doesn’t even recognize me. Not even a little bit.

“I don’t fucking smoke, asshole.”

He chuckles and holds up a hand, palm out. “Whoa, there, buddy. Bad morning?”

He thinks that was me having an attitude? I turn a chip over in my fingers and lean forward. “You could say that.”

He shakes his head and we’re silent for the next round of bets. An older chick with tits more wrinkled than my old man’s knuckles sidles up next to him and puts her arm around him. “I’m ready to go,” she whines.

He sticks his elbow out to shove her off of him and says, “I’m not. I told you I’d find you when I’m ready.”

She whines some more until he pulls a twenty out of his pocket and tells her to go play some penny slots. When she’s gone, I nudge my head in her direction. “That your wife?”

He chuckles again. “No. Fuck no.”

I flip my first card over. It’s a ten of hearts. “You ever been married?” I ask him.

He brings his hand up to his neck and pops it, but doesn’t look at me. “Once. Didn’t last long.”

Yeah, I know. I was there.

“Was she a whore?” I ask him. “Is that why you aren’t married to her anymore?”

He laughs and makes eye contact with me again. “Yeah. Yeah, she was.”

I blow out a slow breath, then flip over my second card. An ace of clubs.

Blackjack.

“I’m getting married,” I say. “But she’s not a whore.”

I don’t think I’m making any sense to him, because he tilts his head and his eyes narrow a little. Then he leans forward and taps the edge of the table. “Let me give you a piece of advice, son.”