that I won’t turn around halfway there. But if you’re willing to come with me, I might be able to do it.”
Her face was the picture of concern now. She leaned forward. “Where are we going, Keats?”
“I need to see my father.”
THIRTY-THREE
Keats couldn’t get out of the car. They’d driven the forty-five minutes, found the address Keats had memorized from the computer, and parked across the street. But the walk from Georgia’s car to the tired-looking house a few yards away seemed to stretch for miles in Keats’s mind.
There was an older-model Ford truck sitting in the driveway with a Dallas Cowboys bumper sticker. Keats had no doubt it belonged to his father. The truck was an updated version of the one Keats had grown up with. His dad had simply switched colors when he traded in the other.
But Keats couldn’t quite grab hold of the fact that the man who had tormented his memories for so long was in there, living some quiet life in small-town Texas. So many questions filled his mind. Had his dad grieved him? And what had his father told Keats’s older brother when he’d come back from overseas? Keats had always felt bad about leaving his brother behind without a word. They’d been close when they were kids, even though Justin was five years older. But when Justin had hit his teen years and become a star football player and then gone into the Marines, fulfilling all that their father wanted him to be, Keats had spent a lot of time resenting his golden boy of a brother. That hadn’t been Justin’s fault. Their father had created those bad feelings by always comparing the two of them—Keats always coming out on the short end.
But the biggest question of all that plagued Keats as he sat there was how would his father react to seeing him now?
Keats pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, a wave of nausea overtaking him.
Georgia took his hand. “You don’t have to go in, you know? No one is making you do this.”
Keats clasped her hand and tried to take a deep breath. She’d been intensely calm the whole ride down here, a solid support there next to him. He wouldn’t have been able to make it this far without her there. If she of all people could put her anxiety aside and be calm on his behalf, he could be brave enough to face this. “I need to see him.”
“Want me to go in with you?”
He leaned back in his seat and turned to look at her. “George, I can’t ask you to do that. My dad can be ugly and angry and mean. I’ve already asked you to do too much by dragging you so far from home.”
She peered at the house, then turned back to him. “I want to go with you. You and Colby have backed me up when I’ve had to face difficult things. Let me back you up for this. I’ll be more worried sitting out here.”
He blew out a breath. Part of him wanted to tell her no, to handle it on his own because God knows he didn’t want Georgia to see the version of himself that his dad brought out in him. But the other part was damn relieved to not be facing it alone. Because he didn’t get scared of much. He’d taken on much bigger guys in fights and hadn’t flinched. But there was something about facing his father that made him feel helpless and small again.
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the top of it. “Thank you, George.”
“Anytime,” she said, that warm smile giving him the last burst of confidence he needed.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
They climbed out of the car and made their way to the door. The grass needed to be cut. His dad would’ve never let him get away with letting it go this long. Get your ass out there and clean that yard up. Can’t you do anything useful? Keats had a moment of panic right at the last second, hearing that familiar angry voice rattle through his head, but managed to lift his hand and knock. Seconds passed, and Keats began to wonder if they’d gotten the wrong house or if maybe his dad was at work. But right when he was about to turn away, he heard heavy footsteps on wood floors. Keats’s spine went stiff.
The door swung open and all the breath rushed out of him.
The man on the other side was still broad and intimidating in size, but his blond hair had grayed at the temples and there were more lines in his face than Keats remembered. His dark eyes met Keats’s, and Keats couldn’t move. His father blinked rapidly a few times, his attention shifting between Keats and Georgia. But when his gaze settled back on his son, Keats knew that his dad recognized him.
Keats’s throat felt like a fist was closing around it. “Hi, Dad.”
His father coughed, though it sounded more like a horse chuffing, and glanced back over his shoulder like he was considering shutting the door and walking away. Finally, he looked back to Keats. “What are you doing here?”
The question didn’t sting as much as it probably should’ve. Keats hadn’t exactly expected a warm reunion. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
He made a sour face, looking fully put-upon by their presence. “Do you need money? Because it’s not like I have—”
“Excuse me,” Georgia said primly, stepping forward from where she’d been hovering behind Keats. “Did you ask him if he’s here for money? You just found out your son is okay and alive and that’s your first question?”
“George,” Keats said, reaching out to touch her elbow. “It’s fine.”
“No, excuse me,” his father said, narrowing his eyes at Georgia. “But I don’t know you and you’re on my porch. I can ask damn well what I want. And if my son didn’t bother to find me for the last however many years it’s been, then why should I think he’s looking me up for any good reason now?”
Nice. His father didn’t even know how many years it’d been since Keats had left. Glad he was so concerned.
“Well, most people would be happy to know their kid is alive,” Keats offered in Georgia’s defense.