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CARSON

It takes me an hour and a half to get there, but the third Saturday of every month, I make the trip down to Dunhill Penitentiary to see Dad.

Thanks to an away game last month, I missed my visit, and like hell I’m skipping out today.

Ever since I moved to Nolan, I’ve been faithfully showing up on visitors day.

Johnson and Mom hate that I go. They don’t want me anywhere near the murderer , but that’s a bit of bullshit right there.

He’s my father and the only one I’ve got.

It was bad enough that I couldn’t see him at all for four whole years.

I’ve been trying to make it up ever since.

I was originally going to attend the University of Denver, so I could be closer to him, but then I got into Nolan U, and they have a great football program, so I went with that.

Mom hates that I didn’t stay in California.

She was pushing hard for me to find a school close by in San Francisco, but like hell I was gonna do that.

I wanted to get as far away from Johnson as I possibly could.

Mom’s the idiot who married the guy, so I can’t stay nearby.

I’m not sure she gets where I’m coming from, and it’s definitely caused a rift between us, but she’ll no doubt call me in about two hours to check on how the visit went.

She always does, and as long as Johnson’s not within earshot, the call tends to go relatively smoothly.

It still riles me that she filed for divorce as soon as Dad was put away.

How could she go from love to hate so easily?

Yes, he was convicted of manslaughter, but it was in self-defense, and the trial was completely bogus.

We didn’t have a lot of money, so we couldn’t hire some fancy-ass attorney, and the judge was an old-school asshole who Mom is convinced swayed the jury with his attitude toward Dad.

That’s how bullshit the justice system is.

Mom wouldn’t let me go to court, so I didn’t actually see how any of it unfolded, but I heard her crying on the phone each night, blubbering to her best friend that Dad’s lawyer was useless and things weren’t going well.

The judge seemed to already hate Dad, and members of the jury were shooting Dad the evil eye whenever evidence was given.

The fact that he used to be a gang member definitely worked against him.

Mom was worried they wouldn’t remain impartial.

I had no idea what that meant when I was younger, but I knew it was bad.

So it was no big surprise on the day of sentencing that the jury found Dad guilty, and the judge gave him the harshest penalty he was able to. Mom came home completely wrecked.

Then a month later, after her first visit to the prison, she returned in a fury and started packing. We moved to California two weeks later, and Mom signed the divorce papers the day we left.

I hated her in that moment.

But not as much as I hated the day she brought Johnson home.

What a fucking douche.

He’s been the worst thing to happen to us, and I can’t believe Mom didn’t fucking wait for Dad!

He’ll be up for parole in seven years. It was supposed to be five, but some shit went down in prison and Dad’s sentence got extended.

Mom was in tears the day she called to tell me.

I couldn’t fucking believe it. Johnson went on about how my father was a reckless hothead, but once again, I’m leaning toward the fact that Dad was probably defending himself.

Easing around the bend in the road, I ride the familiar route to Dad and try to keep everything locked down, in check. But it’s hard sometimes. I both love and hate seeing my father.

He was my hero. The badass biker with the tats, the beard, the broad smile, and the booming laugh.

He used to be a gang member but got out of that life after he met Mom.

They fell in love fast and were married within the year.

Then I came along and we were playing happy family, minding our own business and being this content little trio.

Dad was running a garage, fixing up motorcycles and cars.

Mom was selling real estate. Life was peachy.

But once a gang member, always a gang member.

His old buddies started coming around, demanding things, threatening things. I didn’t know any of this shit at the time, but I remember feeling like someone was watching me when I walked home from school.

I mentioned it at the dinner table one night, and Dad got really tense and quiet. He shared a look with Mom that I remember feeling deep in my gut. Something was off. And six months later, Dad was arrested for killing a guy outside a bar in downtown Denver.

Mom wouldn’t tell me much, and Dad’s annoyingly tight-lipped about it as well. But my guess is his old gang was demanding things he wasn’t willing to give, and then they threatened his family.

It’s probably one of the reasons Mom’s pissed off that I chose to go to college in Colorado. I’m too close to his old life, and she doesn’t want that shit touching me.

But he’s my dad! I’m not walking away from the guy. Just because she did doesn’t mean I have to.

Besides, who else am I going to talk to about Nylah?

A smile touches my lips as I think about her. I saw her walking to class yesterday. It took everything in me not to sprint across the grass and catch her hand, drag her around the side of the building so I could kiss her in secret.

Nah, I’ll save my kisses for tonight, because we all know I’m sneaking into that party.

After sending her a quick “Zoey’s better” update two days after she gave me her number, I made the mistake of texting her again that afternoon.

I don’t know why I did it. But her digits were right there, and I’d just seen a chick who looked exactly like the girl from Krull , and surely Nylah had seen that. It’s a classic.

So, I gave in. I texted, and she texted right back. And the conversation has kept going. She sends me GIFs, and I have to guess what movie they’re from. I send her obscure lines, and she has to tell me which character said them.

It’s dumb.

But it’s fun.

This morning, she messaged me, reminding me about the party.

Sci-Fi Girl: Your ass better be there or I’ll be one lonely girl. Don’t let me down, Two-Bit.

Me: I do not look like fucking Two-Bit Matthews. Lame.

Sci-Fi Girl: Accurate. You totally look like him.

She sent me a pic from The Outsiders with an arrow pointing to his character, but I shook my head.

Me: You can do better than that.

So she sent me a pic of Sodapop Curtis, then immediately followed it up with…

Sci-Fi Girl: Actually, no. He’s way too smiley and happy.

I sent her back a GIF of Homer Simpson flipping the bird while he’s sinking into the ground and got back a bunch of laughing emojis.

About an hour ago, she sent me a GIF of River Phoenix as a young Indiana Jones. Okay, so maybe that’s a little more accurate. Although my hair is way cooler than his.

I haven’t responded to that one yet. I shouldn’t leave her hanging, but I didn’t want to be late for Dad, so I’ll text her after my visit.

Getting off the freeway, I follow the road to Dunhill. It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. This gray concrete block surrounded by fences and barbed wire. I can’t believe my dad has to live in this shithole. It riles me every time.

Fuck that judge and jury for their bias against people with a shady past.

Fuck that lawyer for not fighting harder to defend my dad.

Fuck those gang members who wouldn’t let him go.

Anger brews and boils, but I clamp it down. I can’t let any of that shit show in there. I have to be cool, calm, happy to see my old man. He needs the pick-me-up, right? He deserves it. It’s not like he’s got any other visitors.

His parents died years ago. I doubt any of his buddies from the garage bother, and Mom left him high and dry.

I’m it.

So I have to make it count.

Parking my bike, I saunter into the prison, going through the usual rigmarole.

They keep telling me to switch to video visits.

It’d be easier on everybody. But screw that.

I like the drive down. It’s a good way to clear my head.

I want to see my father properly, not be looking at him through a screen.

Besides, the Wi-Fi is probably shitty this far out from anything, and at least this way we can talk properly without technology being a pain in the ass.

I take my allocated seat and wait for Dad to appear behind the plexiglass.

Other families are already settled. The mom with her two kids, who shows up every time I do, is smiling at her husband, and I’m instantly jealous.

I doubt I’ll be smiling much today. Prison stole my dad’s good mood, and I’m not sure he’ll ever get it back. I haven’t seen the guy smile or heard him laugh in?—

Oh fuck.

Dad appears, shuffling up to the plexiglass and plunking down into his seat. I study his banged-up face. The bruising looks a few days old, the swelling around his cheek and chin already dying down. I can only imagine how it looked the day after it happened.

Picking up the phone with a sigh, I hold the receiver to my ear and mutter, “At least you’re not in solitary this time.”

Dad clears his throat, shuffling in his seat and looking like I’m the last person he wants to see.

Some visits go better than others.

Occasionally, he’ll be in a chatty mood, asking about my classes and football. He seems proud of what I’m doing.

Other times he’s like this, quiet and guarded.

Shit. I wanted to tell him about Nylah, but not if he’s glaring at me like he wishes I would disappear.

“So…” I clear my throat, trying to make the best of it anyway. “How’s it going?”

Dumbest question in the world.

“How the fuck do you think it’s going?” Dad grumbles, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“What happened?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.” I lean a little closer to the plexiglass. “Talk to me, Dad.”

“Just helping out a little guy. That’s all.”

My lips curl up at the corners and I start to nod, softly mumbling, “You’re a good man.”

“No.” He closes his eyes. “Fuck, Carson. No. I’m not a good man, okay? I don’t even know why you keep coming to visit me.”

“Because you’re my dad.”

“You’ve already got one of those on the outside.” His voice is clipped and quiet, but it feels like a punch to the face.

I lean away, thumping back in my chair and hissing, “That asshole is not my father.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Got in another bust-up, huh?”

“Fucker doesn’t want me in his house again. Apparently, I’m an ungrateful little shit.”

Dad frowns, looking down and rubbing his forehead again. “He makes your mom happy.”

“Whatever. He’s a dick.”

Glancing back at me, Dad’s nostrils flare, his voice going hard and brittle. “He’s the best dad you’re ever gonna get, kid.”

“He’s not my fucking father!” I whisper-bark, trying and failing to keep my voice down.

Dad’s expression softens, his bruised cheeks sagging, his gray gaze going despondent as he whispers, “Neither am I.”

What the fuck?

“Dad, come on.” It’s impossible to hide the hurt riding through me. How can he say that?

“You don’t want to be related to a loser like me, so stop visiting. I tell you this every time, and you still keep coming back.” His eyebrows dip together as he huffs and spits into the phone, “Seriously, kid. I’m doing you a favor. Don’t visit again.”

And with that, he slams the phone down and orders the guard to take him away.

“No! Dad!” I call after him, but he doesn’t even look back.

Gripping the phone, I squeeze the shit out of the handle before slamming it back down and jolting out of my chair.

What the fuck!

All this way for nothing!

And he doesn’t ever want me to visit again.

Well, fuck that!

I’m coming back. I don’t give a shit what he says. He’s my old man, and I’m gonna stay loyal to the guy.

As I stalk out to my bike, I think about his banged-up face and wonder how he can put his body on the line to protect a little guy but won’t even spare me ten minutes of his time!

“Fuck!” I shout, snatching my helmet and hurling it across the parking lot.

It hits the fence, making the whole thing vibrate while I stand there huffing on the concrete and hating my mom for killing Dad’s soul.

If she’d just waited for the guy, he’d have hope.

Now he’s stuck in a concrete box watching the woman he loved move on with some rich prick.

It’s killing him.

And I’m not enough to heal the pain.