"Hi, Mr. Garrity," Tim looks up as he sees Buddy Garrity walk in through the front door. Tim is setting up for the day - it's his favorite time at the bar, although that isn't saying much. It's before the doors open. Before things get busy. Before the same old town drunks take up in their usual spots to reminisce about days gone by. That part of it is particularly depressing to Tim. This could be his life 20 years from now. He hopes that it isn't.
"Tim," Buddy nods briskly. He isn't smiling. Tim's stomach drops. He couldn't know anything, right? Lyla wouldn't have said anything. Right?
"I'm, uh, just gettin' a keg ready here, Mr. Garrity. Gotta head out a bit early today - there's a scrimmage, and Coach Leary needs me to-"
"Just cut the crap, Tim Riggins," Buddy replies shortly.
"Sir?" Tim looks at him.
"My daughter came home from Austin last night," his lips are pursed in an unfriendly line. "To tell me - but you already know what she told me, don't you, Tim?"
"I wouldn't have any idea, sir," Tim replies.
"Right, right. Of course," Buddy smiles. It's not a friendly smile. He slides onto a bar stool in front of Tim, who instinctively takes a step back. "Do you recall a friendly little conversation we had before Lyla came home this summer?"
Tim stares at Buddy. Impassively.
Buddy smiles again, shaking his head. "Why would you? You've never listened me before, why would you start now? . . . . You and I have a long history, don't we, Tim Riggins. I thought - before this summer, at least - I thought both of us wanted the same thing: what was best for Lyla."
"I do, sir," Tim replies immediately. "We both do."
"Now, see, that's where we kind of veer off course. Right there," Buddy waggles his finger. "Because -I've- always wanted Lyla to meet someone - someone that could take real good care of her," he locks eyes with Tim momentarily, "that could take care of her the way she deserves to be taken care of. You, on the other hand, have always tried to screw that up. Why, Tim?"
"I don't understand, Mr. Garrity."
"Oh, you understand real well, Tim. Lyla," he pauses, glaring at Tim, "has informed me that she has broken up with Bryan. Just like that. No warning. No explanation. Nuthin.' Going their separate ways, says Lyla. Something about growing apart, not wanting the same things in life, yada yada. Which is a funny thing, you know, since not a month ago - she and Bryan were here, standing in this bar, as happy as two clams, planning their future together." He pauses, eyeing Tim as he turns away from Buddy and hoists a keg up onto the back of the bar.
"Leave it," Buddy says. Shortly.
Tim stops. He turns back around slowly.
"So I'm askin' you, Tim," Buddy continues, narrowing his eyes. "I'm askin' you - what happened between then and now? Because, you know, I've been doin' an awful lot of thinkin' about that myself, and the only answer I have is you. -You- happened between then and now," he shakes his head before glaring back at Tim. "My daughter hasn't been back in Dillon for four years. -Four years.- She was happy. She was content. She had everything she wanted. And yet, the moment, the -moment- she steps foot into town, -you- are in her face. Tryin' to insinuate yourself back into her life. Is that the way you thank me, Tim? For standin' up for you - in front of the parole board, in front of this town? For givin' you a job? For supportin' you with the Panther organization? Is that the thanks I get? That you - that you - right under my nose," he splutters, "go right under my nose and take my daughter from me?"
"I didn't take your daughter from you, Mr. Garrity," Tim replies. His jaw tenses.
"Yeah. Well, Lyla - that little girl of mine - lemme tell you, she's loyal to you to a fault," Buddy says bitterly. "She wouldn't tell me anything about you. And her. Wouldn't tell me if she'd seen you this summer, if you'd even spoken, let alone . . . . I don't even want to think about it. But I'll tell you this, Tim, I know my daughter. And I know you. And if you think - if you think you can just walk back into her life, you've got another thing comin.' I'll move heaven and earth to keep her away from you."
Tim looks down and nods. He has a bitter smile on his face. "What happened to takin' me in like 'family,' Mr. Garrity?" he asks. "Remember that whole speech?"
"That was before you decided to move in on my daughter, Tim," Buddy seethes.
Tim shakes his head in disbelief. "I dated your daughter, sir. For years - I loved your daughter; she loved me."
"That was before you were a felon," Buddy spits out.
Tim bites his lip. He nods slowly. He is silent.
Buddy stands up. His bar stool screeches. It sounds harsh in the quiet of a morning that's not yet subsumed by the sounds of blaring televisions, chatting patrons, clinking glasses. It's the only sound in an otherwise quiet bar, as the two men facing one another, staring at one another - who seemingly want the same thing, love the same person - are on opposite sides of a clearly drawn line. One that has now been crossed. By both of them.
Finally, Buddy speaks again. "I want you out of here, Tim. You're not welcome here."
Tim nods again. He throws down a bar towel, and grabs a duffel bag from under the bar. He doesn't look at Buddy as he heads to the door.
"Tim," Buddy calls after him.
Tim stops and looks back at Buddy.
"I mean it. Stay away from Lyla," Buddy says, before turning his back on Tim and heading toward the kitchen.