He hasn’t seen me yet. I approach, studying him as I do. If you want to see someone’s true colors, take a peek at who they are when they think they’re alone.
He’s fidgety, can’t seem to sit still. Nervous, I think. Anxious. Or maybe he’s just high. I’m almost right in front of him when he finally notices. He tenses as he stands up.
No sunglasses this time, but he's not meeting my gaze.
“How do you know where I work?”
His eyes lower, like he’s ogling my chest, so I glance down and roll my eyes at myself. Work uniform. Duh. I’m a walking advertisement for the Piggly Q.
“I probably shouldn’t have shown up here, but I was worried you might try to avoid me,” he admits. “That you’d blow me off.”
“So you weren’t going to give me the chance?”
He laughs awkwardly. “Guess you can say that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not me. I told you we could talk, so here I am.”
“I appreciate it,” he says, still fidgeting, his attention on the parking lot. “I, uh… I didn’t really think I’d make it this far. I figured you’d shut me down right away, run me out of town with my tail tucked between my legs like every other time.”
“Don’t do that,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest. “Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here.”
“No, you’re right, I didn’t mean…” He sighs as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. Silence festers between us for a moment. It’s so quiet I can hear crickets chirping in the distance. “Do you think we could go somewhere? Sit down for a bit somewhere more private?”
“Look at me,” I say, ignoring his question, because he hasn’t made eye contact with me yet. “I need you to look at me, Jonathan.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he sits back down on the hood of my car, mumbling, “Jonathan. It’s been a long time since anybody has called me that.”
“Oh, right,” I say, unlocking the driver’s side door, because I don’t have it in me to stand here and play games with him. “Johnny Cunning. Almost forgot that’s who you are now.”
“I’m still the same person,” he says quietly.
“And who exactly is that?” I ask. “Are we talking about Speaker Cunningham’s son? The dreamer, the believer, the one who never let anything hold him back? Or maybe we’re talking about the alcoholic. You know, the cokehead.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s the truth.” His left hand slips into his pocket to pull something out. It reflects the parking lot lights as he holds it up—a shiny bronze coin, not much bigger than a quarter.
A sobriety chip.
I don’t know what to say. Everything gets quiet again. My fingertips brush against his when I take it from him. It’s solid metal, a triangle etched in the face of it, the Roman numeral I in the center with ‘recovery’ written along the bottom.
One year sober.
“People saw you coming out of a bar last week.”
“That doesn’t mean I drank. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I won’t.” He pauses, his voice quieter when he says, “I can’t.”
I want to believe him.
I wish I could.
Once upon a time, I believed everything that flowed from this man’s lips, but it’s hard to give his words any weight after what we went through.
“Then why won’t you look at me?” I ask. “You say that, you want me to believe it, yet you won’t even look me in the eyes.”
“Because I've fucked things up with you,” he says. “Do you know how hard it is to face you right now? I know nothing can erase what I've done, but I need you to know how sorry I am.”
Sorry.
It isn’t the first time he’s apologized. He does it every single time. But he was messed up then, always, and I’m not sure if he is right now, because the sobriety chip weighs heavy in my hand but his eyes still won’t meet mine.
“I’m sorry for the way I hurt you,” he says. “Sorry for everything I did that led us to this point. And I get it, you know, if you hate me. Wouldn’t blame you at all. But I just need to tell you… I need you to know… that even when I was completely fucked up, I never once stopped loving you.”
Those words, they rip the air from my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, the bronze coin digging into my palm.
“I don’t expect you’ll believe that.” He shoves up from my car, his eyes finally meeting mine, and they’re bright blue and so clear, but it only lasts a few seconds before his gaze returns to the ground. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I’m not perfect, but I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know shit about being a father, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to try. Tomorrow… the next day… someday… whenever it is, I’ll be there.”