Lost and Found part II

Liam

Since I had been grounded, time had slowed to a crawl. But today, I had one small thing to look forward to after school. And I hoped I wouldn't screw it up. I had practically run to the classroom where the book club meets. Mr. Booker, I know hilarious right, had to come from the other side of the school so it took him several minutes to pack up, help any students that had hung around and hoof it over to the classroom adjacent to the library. I got here early because I was hoping Macy would be around. She had skipped the last few meetings—after I—after I screwed up, avoiding me I was certain. But she was here last week and I was hoping to find her before she got settled in and hid behind a book. I just wanted to apologize—again.

I came careening around the corner nearly taking out a freshman, when I saw her at the doorway. "Macy!" I yelled out. She looked at me, disdain in her face and eyes. She shook her head and began to turn and walk towards the classroom.

"Can we talk for a second. Just one second. Please?" I beg.

"Afterwards—maybe." But her eyes hold no promises.

I look at her, as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Her hazel eyes reflecting the blue from her dress. Her lips curving downwards at the corners, probably because I was standing there talking to her. "I can't, I have to go to the district after school—I'm grounded—I haven't been so good about following the rules lately."

"So I've heard," she said trying to snap it out of her mouth, but she is incapable of being snotty, she just doesn't have it in her.

I ignore her statement about what she had heard and apologize again. I'm so sorry. I was so stupid. I know you can't forgive me, but please listen to me and know how horrible I feel." I tell her, begging forgiveness for cheating on her.

"I forgive you, but I can't forget what you did."

"I swear I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did hurt me Liam James Halstead, you hurt me terribly. My trust and faith in you is broken now and you can't just get that back."

"I know. I know," I say, my voice nearly trembling. I just want to put my arms around her and hold her close, but instead I just tell her that I was stupid.

"Were you stupid with Hannah too?"

"You know about that?" I ask astonished. But then I was astonished at myself to even think for a moment that anything was a secret for long, not in this day and age, maybe not ever.

"Dude I knew all the lurid details before you even left the party."

"Were you there?"

"No. I was home where I was supposed to be."

I stood there running my hand through my hair as my backpack slipped from my other hand to the floor. I wasn't sure what my face reflected, but Macy had her own idea.

"Don't look at me like that. With that dazed over 'I don't understand' look. Don't act like the innocent victim—even though—"

"Even though what?" I ask uncertain of what she could possibly say.

"Even though Hannah was using you, just like Carly was using you."

"Using me? I don't understand."

"Duh. God, boys can be so stupid. I'll admit it's kind of backwards—usually it's the girls that are notches."

"Usually it's the girls that are what?" I ask genuinely not following along.

"Notches on the guys belt—but not with you, you are on the notch on their—their purse strap."

"I don't understand." I say, though I am beginning to. I have aged well, testosterone shaping my face with angles that worked well, my eyes have deepened their blue somehow, my hair has darkened but was still on the light side with auburn coppery highlights or light honey brown as some believe. Though I was on the smaller side and definitely shorter side, I have a lean frame that had filled out enough that I could hold my own. And I could—always underestimated, I could run fast and was stronger than I looked, both skills that came in handy on the soccer pitch and baseball diamond where I was coming into my own.

"They want to say they've slept with you or done something with you or to you. It's like a game. No, not with me, of course not with me. I don't play those games—I don't use people," she said as she glared at me. "But you got some action, we had good times, and I cared about you, those girls don't. Why would you do that to me?" Macy spat out. She had always admired Liam's humility, never seeing himself as nearly every girl in the tenth grade had. She thought he had been the sweetest and yes sexiest boy in their class and loved being in a relationship with him, until he turned out to be just like the rest.

"I was stupid—so stupid."

"Yes you were. What is up with you lately. Being grounded and going out anyway. You're dad works hard and this is how you repay him? You know you broke your trust with him too."

"That's why, all he does is work. I wanted him to realize how much he was gone." I reply, trying to state my case.

"Dude, my mom is a single parent, she's a lawyer and works just as many hours as your dad, but I try to give her one less thing to worry about by doing what I'm supposed to do—at least most of the time."

"Well at least she's not getting shot at." I volley.

"Well, it is Chicago, you don't have to be a cop to be shot at."

"Fair point." I admit.

"But you're right, he's out there risking his life in a dangerous job and now because he can't trust you, he's thinking about what your stupid ass is doing instead of focusing on the danger around him. What if he gets hurt, because your antics distracted him? How would you live with yourself then?"

"I guess I never thought about that."

"Well you should. You are being so selfish."

I switch gears as I blurt out, "I wanted to write you a poem, to apologize."

"I love that you love books and can step inside them and wrap the words around you, feeling them, using their ideas for your own life. But I know that you hate poetry.

"Yeah I know. Turns out it's probably because I can't write it. I tried so many times to write something worthwhile for you, but I failed every time."

She stood there looking thoughtful. "I did like your short story for creative writing—you know, the one about the woman who left her family for their safety and went back to her birth family the crazy mobsters only to kill them so she could go back to her husband and son." She said recalling my effort for our last assignment in the class that we both shared. I thought about the words that she had just said and debated what to say next when Mr. Booker interrupted us.

"Hey guys, in or out. We will be delving into to what Pip's reaction is to finding out who his benefactor was."

We both smiled at him and nodded as I held up my copy of Great Expectations, this months book. I had enjoyed it and had my opinions on why Pip felt as he did, and had been looking forward to sharing them, but somehow it didn't seem to matter right now.

"Two minutes." He said as he slipped by us.

"What I did to you, I can never repair, but I have never been so sorry about anything else like I have been about my betrayal. I found something a few weeks ago and all I wanted to do was call you—show you, but I couldn't and then—well then I haven't done well not talking about it."

So, talk to your dad."

"I can't. I'm mad at him about this."

She looked puzzled and stayed quiet for a moment. "Then talk to Jameson."

"He won't get it, not like you would."

"Well then, what about Hannah or Carly. They seem to like to entertain you."

"I deserve that." I admit.

"You sure as hell do."

But I could tell I had her attention and she was realizing that our relationship was much deeper than anything I had ever had with any other girl.

"What is it then," she sighed.

I get ready to pull out the envelope, but something stops me. "It was true," I say instead.

"What was true?"

"My short story—about the woman who left her family to go home—except for the killing of her relatives and coming back. But the leaving for the sake of her husband/lover and child—the mafia family—it's true."

"Whose truth?"

"Mine. It's my story—well, more my mothers. I never told anyone, because who would believe it. I mean I wouldn't—but it's true. That's why she left." I pull my phone from my back pocket realizing our two minute window has come and gone. I type in James family Ireland and the headlines begin to pop up. I find one with pictures of my uncles, and find Seamus, the one I look the most like and I hand it over to Macy.

She took the phone and scrolled up to the beginning of the article that mentioned a raid that had taken place, and the arrest of Seamus and Callum James. It also gave a rundown of many of their past crimes. Her eyes darted back and forth as she learned of my family, I could tell she was skeptical until she enlarged the picture of the uncle I had never met. Her eyes grew large as she looked at me and then back at my phone.

"It's the eyes. I have my mom's eyes. She has her dad's eyes. So does Seamus."

"Deep, deep sparkly blue," she gasped. "I've never seen eyes like yours before. You have the same nose as well."

It was then that I finally pulled out the envelope.

Several days later, I was coming home from working on a history project with Jameson. I had gotten permission explaining to my father that we had to work together or I would end up doing all the work. I showed him the outline of our research and the empty pages in my notebook. He told me they had better be full along with some kind of contribution from Jameson as proof for my after school endeavor away from the district. I had my proof, notes done by both of us, my attempts at reasonable scrawl, next to his sloppiness all over the page. He had scanned the notes into his computer as I had the old fashioned pen and paper. But I didn't mind. Sometimes I liked to pull out all the sheets of paper and spread them around, highlighting and rearranging.

I came around the corner and my heart nearly stopped. There was a patrol car double parked right in front of my apartment. Most people would be concerned of some sort of crime; a break-in, vandalism, domestic issue. But my heart, did what it always did, what it always would and began to break into tiny pieces as it had that day when Adam had to pick me up because my father was busy fighting for his life.

I raced to the car, but it was empty. I looked around but didn't see the officers. You couldn't get into our building without a key. Once inside there was a set of stairs that went up to the apartment upstairs and a hallway that took you to our door and to the basement stairs. I ran inside but didn't hear or see anyone. I ran back outside and nearly ran into one of the patrol officers.

"You okay kid?" He asked me.

"I'm not sure."

"Everything alright?" The other one asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"My dad, he's—this isn't a notification is it?"

"What?" The first one asked, clearly confused.

I knew that Voight would send someone I knew, that he wouldn't leave me to strangers if my dad had been hurt or worse. But then again, what if they were too busy running down leads and simply couldn't leave to run an errand.

"My dad's a detective—I know they send cops if—if anything happens."

"Everything's fine. We're here to take a report about a stolen motorcycle. Your dad—he's fine." The second officer assures me.

I went inside, relieved but still uneasy. I tossed my backpack on the floor and was about to toss my coat on the floor but stopped myself and opened the closet and hung it up. Next to the hanger I grabbed was my dad's CPD windbreaker, the one that he never wore. He has a picture of me on his desk from when I was ten or eleven wearing it—the navy blue jacket swallowing me up. I pulled it out and tried it on—it was still big, but now I had a fighting chance of finding the ends of sleeves. I was slowly catching up. It reminded me of another coat that hung in the back of his bedroom closet. I didn't even know he had it until I was around nine and we were playing hide and seek and I stumbled on it as I burrowed inside his closet. It was one of the few pieces of his military past that he still had; an ACU coat or army combat uniform in layman's terms. But he just had the top half, stiff and full of pockets. I couldn't imagine what he hid in these zippered fabric cubby holes when he was overseas. He had ripped off all the patches including his name and the ranger patch, leaving the little velcro barbs waiting for their mate. I didn't know if he had put them elsewhere or had tossed them into a burning trash can, never to be recovered, memories he just assume never see again.

I went into his bedroom and found it in the closet, still in the back, behind his good suit. I carefully pulled it out and tried it on. I walked over to the mirror hanging on the front of his closet door and saw that I had some growing to do before I filled it out, but at the same time it didn't seem so foreign, like it was waiting for the next Halstead to fill it's emptiness. As I gazed at myself, his likeness stared back at me. I realized that he hadn't been that much older than me when he had enlisted. A soldier of war, seeing who knows what, over and over, pounding his sanity away inch by inch. He gave so much, saw so much, endured so much. Then back to Chicago and an infant he had never asked for and broken relationship that could never overcome the mystery that had surrounded it. He had poured his heart and soul into the police force, using his energy and experience to fast track to detective, carving out a career. Then suddenly bearing the full load of parenthood, all the while battling the war that took place every day all around us, as well as the one raging inside his head, and occasionally the one brewing in his own home.

And here I was being a selfish brat throwing everything right back in his face. I unzipped each pocket and dug around in them as if I would find some kind of buried treasure or sand from the desert of despair. It was in the top one with the diagonal zipper that something touched my fingers. I fished the thin paper-like object out to discover it was a picture of me. I was propped up on a couch with the beginnings of a smile on my face. I flipped it over and saw my mother's description on the back: Liam two months, hi Daddy.

It looked well-worn and I didn't know if it was because he took it out a lot or because he hadn't. I wondered if he knew it was in there; that for some reason he left it—maybe the reason he couldn't get rid of the coat. Perhaps it was some kind of matching set from his past—a piece of history that was his and his alone.

I took the coat off and hung it back up exactly where I found it. I headed back to the living room and thought maybe I could watch a few minutes of TV since it was only 6:30 and my warden was still at work, but the remote control was nowhere to be found. Clearly he had had the forethought to hide it somewhere. Macy had been right, I had trashed her trust in me as well as my father's and I deserved everything I got. But still, somewhere within my teenage rage, I was still hemorrhaging anger. Was it Dad's fault? I attached my misconduct to what I felt was his negligence. I blamed my mother's failing at his feet. He was the one that was bearing all the burdens of her absence. It had worn me down and I couldn't begin to imagine what it had done to him. I felt it had given me the right to be outraged and thereby allowed me to lash out in any manner I felt appropriate, and towards the parent that had managed to stay around.

When Jameson and I drank or smoked I could forget the things that nagged at me all day every day, like little hangnails that kept catching on everything, hurting far more than they should and only made you want to pick at them more. The present could be hard but the past was a trap that I kept falling into and I would roll around in its history and come out smelling of resentment and indignation. The future—well the future terrified me.

My dad had been fighting all of his life; first through a difficult relationship with his father—Will had mentioned it was often rocky, but hadn't given me details. Then he went to actual war only to come back and enlist to do battle on the city streets and now—now I was the frontline. And the biggest question that I didn't have an answer to was why? I love my father more than anything, and perhaps that is why I am making him see me—because I can't tell him what is in my heart. Because the day my mother left she ripped so much from me leaving a gaping hole of anguish. Despite her words that I had recently discovered, there was no forgiveness or understanding in my heart. She broke me into a million pieces, pieces that my father had been picking up ever since.

I'm scared every morning that I will never see him again. I'm tired of him always being the brave one, the one that leads the charge and so often has to leave me behind—just as she did. Because my world simply couldn't turn without him or I'm afraid that it could and that would be even worse.

I was debating about going back into his room to look for the remote when the door opened and Dad walked in. I was somewhat surprised that he was already home and the fear and uneasiness that I had felt earlier concerning his mortality had dissipated in its entirety at his presence.

Jay

I could tell I caught Liam off guard when I walked through the door. He wasn't doing anything wrong, but there was still an air of impropriety. He barely looked at me before he began to head towards his room. What I wouldn't give for him to be ten years old again and watch his face light up when I got home. The day I had always feared has come; I was now considered to be a useless appendage.

"How was your day?" I ask before he can escape. But all I get is a slight shrug and indiscernible mumble. "Why my day was just fine Dad," I say in a bright cheery voice, "and how was your day? Well, son, my day went pretty well, but I'm happy to be home with you." I mock. I can tell it pisses him off, but he is smart enough to leave it alone. I don't want to hurt him, but this teenage angst is about to kill me.

"How'd studying with Jameson go?" I ask as I flip through the mail, not allowing him to leave the room yet.

He digs in his backpack and slowly makes his way over to me. "Here's our notes. You can see my handwriting and his."

"His is the illegible part?"

"Yep."

"Have you eaten?" I ask after looking at the notes.

"No. I just got home a few minutes ago."

"Okay, I'll see what I can scrounge up."

"I have leftover spaghetti." He says as he shoves his notebook back into his bag. "I'm going to do my homework."

And suddenly I was alone again. At least he didn't slam his door. I don't even know where to begin with him. How do I trust him again? Where do we go from here? And what the hell is bothering him? Yes, I've dealt with his attitude, temperamental days and nights, arguments and general teenage torment and misgivings, but there was something deeper going on here. I had even called Kyle Casey who was now a freshman at the University of Chicago. But he said he hadn't been in touch with Liam for several weeks and hadn't heard of anything.

I never expected him to be an angel. I was a kid once. I went to parties, drank underage, blew off my curfew, gave my parents difficult days and nights, but there was something razor sharp under this recent barrage of trouble. I'm frustrated with his recent actions, but I'm even more disappointed in the fact that he hasn't come to me, hasn't even tried to unload the burden that is clearly weighing him down. I sigh and begin to dig through the fridge for the steak I had defrosted along with some already prepared mashed potatoes to stick in the microwave. Twenty minutes later dinner was done and I was still waiting for Liam who I had already called twice. Finally he came out and plopped down at the table, only to get back up and get a glass of water before returning.

"What is your project on?" I ask as I cut into my steak.

"Jean-Baptiste Pointe du Sable, and the founding of Chicago."

"Local history. Did he get anything besides a bridge named after him?" Liam didn't answer, merely shrugged. "Guess you're still at the beginning of your paper then."

He stood up, taking his plate with him. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"I'm not that hungry."

"Okay, but you don't get to just leave the table."

His whole body just seemed to sag, as if to say 'really?' "Can I be excused," he asks in a less than pleasant tone.

"No you may not. Sit down. We need to talk."

"About what?" He demanded to know as he slammed his body back in his chair, causing his plate and fork to clatter.

"About what we can do so that I can trust you again one day."

"Listen Jay," he begins, and I lose the battle of composure two seconds into our conversation. I know he is pushing my buttons, but for this, I'm going to push back.

"Oh no you didn't. You did not just call me by my first name." I bluster at the clear disrespect.

"Why not?" He asks, his tone tight.

"I am Jay to anyone and everyone else in the world, but to one person and that person is you, I am, and will always be, Dad. It doesn't matter how old you are, you will always be my son and I will always be your father and you will address me as such. Understood?"

"Fine," he sighs leaving the fight at my feet, for which I am grateful. And I'm just as grateful that he didn't say 'whatever'.

"What can you do to gain my trust back?"

"I don't know. Isn't that your department?"

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," he snaps. But I know it's something, something deep and dark.

"No more drinking, no more drugs. And I think you're too young to be sexually active."

"Wow, so life is all about books and sitting in the district breakroom then?"

"For now it is. Why did you take the drugs?" I ask as I lay my knife and fork down on the edge of my plate.

"Because—because I wanted to try it."

"Did you like how it made you feel?" I could tell he was deciding how to answer. It was clear that he didn't want to give me any satisfaction, making this conversation a complete waste of time.

"Sure. I was flying high. Especially coupled with the alcohol and sex."

"Okay, it's clear that you have no desire to have an actual discussion so you can go back to your room and I'll see you tomorrow after school at the district."

"Fine," he says as he gets up and leaves his dishes at the table, bating me to call him back to take them to the sink, but I leave it alone and let him go.

"We can do this for the rest of your sophomore year." I yell at him. "It's going to be a long a road back for you."

"Yeah well that road is a two way street." He challenges.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask him, having no idea what he was talking about. Apparently in his mind I'm part of whatever problem he was entrenched in and I don't have a clue to what I have, or haven't done. "Look, getting back on track is going to be up to you."

"Well, at least something is up to me then." He says as he slams his door behind him.

I stand up throw my napkin at the table and whisper my favorite word as of late, "fuck!"

Liam

I have about five minutes of homework left, I had gotten most of it done at Jameson's. But there is nothing left in this room to do and if I go back into the living room it will be far too awkward, and I just not ready to talk yet. I work on a few extra credit math equations—I hate math, I can't even imagine having to use it the real world. But I figure it won't hurt to get a few bonus points in case the next test doesn't go well. When I'm done with that I work on a poem for Macy and quickly come to realize that I have no hope to come up with anything worthwhile.

I silently berate myself for being so stupid and, trading a fun evening for the best relationship I have ever had. Did I get my dad's genes that seem to dictate poor abilities in the arena of relationships? But as far as I knew, he had never cheated, his connections just seemed to fizzle out. At least I had a little more style. Who was I kidding, I suck and I was wrong and I would go back and do it all differently if I could.

If Macy and I had still been together everything would have been different. She would have talked me down when I came across the envelope that held words that cut me so deeply. The worst thing was, that was the exact opposite of their intent. I would have gone to Macy and told her everything and showed her my findings immediately where she would have listened, held me and encouraged me to talk to my father, guided me through my emotions, explained to me what I couldn't see for myself. I most likely would have heeded her advice and our lives wouldn't be this tumultuous mess that I had imported.

I had spent so much of my life alternating between pulling my father close and pushing him away. I remember when I was ten and didn't want him to go back to work after he had been shot. I had pushed every button I knew how, so that he wouldn't return to full duty. But of course nothing worked. His life, goals, and job were bigger than me. And what did I expect anyway? For him to give up everything just to satisfy the whim of a ten year old boy?

When I would push him away, I wanted him to come find me—hold me close—just what my mother hadn't done—not in the end anyway. Her abandonment had seared a scar deeply into my soul and I could never leave it far from my psyche as it always seemed to wallow in my subconscious, bobbing up and down like a cork.

It was the fear of another devastating loss that drove my absurd behavior. Pushing my father away, to ease or temper his possible loss if the unthinkable happened—that fear always hovering. He was built on a foundation of action and danger, so brave and strong, yet still vulnerable to its effects.

But just as I would disengage to the best of my abilities, I would reach out and cling to him, realizing I was throwing away our entire relationship based on an anxiety that may never happen. How would I justify my actions if something did happen and I had wasted all that time pretending that I never cared when it was all that I did.

When I would retreat from him, I would pray he would come to me, pull me back to him—and he did—he always did. He gave me what my mother couldn't—and he did it over and over again. It wasn't fair to keep demanding this of him—he had proven that he was willing and capable. But wounds had just been reopened and I needed him to come to me with assistance that I so desperately needed. So why was I doing everything in my power to open up this huge chasm between us? To fuel my self-destruction and demand that he figure out why with absolutely no facts or trail of clues. And why, last night, when I heard him having a nightmare, did I just walk back to my room without intervening and lay there and hate myself for it?

Jay

I turned in my chair at my desk to see Sarge looking into the breakroom where Liam was sitting at the table doing his homework, clearly frustrated that the Chromebook wasn't up to snuff in comparison to his laptop. I told Sargent Voight a bit about what had been going on and why I needed Liam here every afternoon, where he did his homework, filled up the staplers, wiped down the shelves, became a gopher for all of us. If we all had to leave then he went downstairs and did the same things for Sargent Platt. He was pretty miserable and I really took no joy from that, but what happiness I did get was that I knew he was safe and sober. But I knew this couldn't continue. The district wasn't an after-school program for wayward teens and Sarge had been generous enough by allowing Liam to come by for the last couple of weeks. But the kid still hadn't cracked and I was beginning to think he never would. And the other nagging issue was, how could I get him to obey the rules when I couldn't be there?

I looked back at my desk and stared at my monitor, thinking of Liam instead of police-work when Sarge beckoned me to his office. I got up and made my way there, where I was instructed to close the door.

"Have a seat," he offered. So I sat. "I know you've got your hands full. And you know that I want to help you in any way that I can. But I think we both know that Liam can't continue to come to the district after school."

"I know Sarge. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You're his father and you are watching out for him when he is being too stubborn and stupid to do it for himself. But you need to figure this out. So, why don't you take this afternoon, and tomorrow if needed and get to the bottom of it."

I immediately nod and start to get up, wondering just how I'm going to accomplish this. I can interrogate scum of the earth, housewives who have been through too much, witnesses that have seen too much and murderers who kill for the hell of it, but I can't seem to crack my own fifteen year old son.

"Hey, you know where to find me if you need me." Sarge says. "I mean it Jay, just give me a call."

I mumble thanks and wonder if I'll need to take him up on it as I leave his office and gather my stuff from my desk. I then walk to the breakroom and grab the problem-child. "Let's go."

"Now?"

"Yeah now."

"Wow," he gasps and begins to shove his books into his backpack and puts his coat on and follows me outside to the truck. "Why the early release?"

"Because we have to figure this out. And we are going to figure it out—tonight," I tell him, my tone stern and authoritative hoping that he buys my attempt at getting to the bottom of his teenage drama.

The drive is quiet, I let him have his time and silence. Traffic is a pain in the ass, but I try not to let it bother me. Once we are home, I drive around looking for a parking space remotely close to our apartment, but the best that I can do is a two block walk. I love our tree-lined, brick, rowhouse neighborhood, but parking is a constant dilemma. Usually when I come home late, I can snag a spot that someone has left to pick-up a child from some activity or a trip to the store, but now, everyone is jockeying for position and I'm just slightly late to the party.

The silence continues as we walk home, I let it sit. He can stay quiet now, because he will talk—he has to, or I just might lose my mind. Once inside he tosses his backpack towards his doorway and flings his coat on the couch while I try and breathe deeply.

"Hungry?" I ask.

"I had something from the vending machine. Adam feels sorry for me and plies me with garbage."

"Good old uncle Adam," I mumble thinking back to all the times he babysat Liam and how the kid always managed to make out like a bandit. "Have a seat and get comfortable," I tell him motioning to the couch.

"I still have homework," he says as he sighs, sits down and folds his arms.

"Well this is going to be up to you more than me."

"Then, I say I go to my room and get my paper done," he says starting to stand up.

"Sit down," I yell, causing him to flinch at my elevated tone. "There will be no leaving this room until we figure this out. He sits down and looks uncertain. I still have no idea what I'm going to say so I just open my mouth and start.

"Look kid, I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but you are definitely not one of them. You always fight that notion, yes, you were unplanned, but you have saved me in more ways than you can ever know." He looks somewhat interested and I hope I can keep him on track.

"I have?" He asks tentatively.

"Yes. I told uncle Will once that you were my anchor. When work and the past seemed to be too much to handle I knew that I had to stay in control because I had you and you deserved my best efforts and I would have to fight whatever might take me away from you."

"Really?"

"Yes. You can ask Will. It's the God's honest truth." He seems a little more interested as I continue. "Did you know that when your mother left and I suddenly became a full time dad, I was terrified?"

"But you had me on weekends and did fine."

"I did. But that is not nearly the same. I didn't have you every day. I didn't have to get you ready for school, or pick you up from the sitters, or worry what to do with you when I had to stay until midnight or go in at three in the morning. I didn't have to worry about homework or permission slips or play dates. Or clean clothes, lost toys, sleepless nights, or dinner seven nights a week."

"But you did it," he says quietly.

"Of course I did. I'm not perfect, this you already know and remind me of frequently, but I try, I really do. I know you probably don't believe it, but I try to keep you close—us close. I know that you are older now and seeking independence, but I feel like it's more—that you are drifting away from me and I can't stop it. You won't talk to me when clearly something is bothering you, instead you turn to drugs and alcohol and that is not okay. I get the rebellion, it's normal, but drugs son? You will never find true solace in drugs and alcohol."

"You do."

"I never did drugs, never!" I tell him and it's the truth.

"But you drink. And it must do something because you do it when your stressed after a bad case or when you want to unwind or just when you come home." He says and this is also the truth.

"You're right, I do drink to relax or unwind after a rough day." I admit that a drink in the evening did help loosen the grasp that the day had held on me. "But, I'm well over twenty-one and I don't drink to excess and I'm not wandering around the city alone and under the influence like you were. Do you know how unsafe that is?"

"No more unsafe than you in a gun battle."

I can't have this conversation again—it's just not in me. So I switch tactics. "You and Macy broke up because you cheated on her?" I ask putting the ball back in his court.

"Yeah. I blew it. We had only been," he pauses searching for the words, "intimate a few times, but each time had been really special you know. I didn't pressure her, I didn't push her, I swear—and it was—beautiful. But one night," he pauses again looking at me and I can tell he is debating about how honest to be. "One night when I had been drinking and a girl came on to me—I let her. Macy found out and we broke up and I don't blame her. I miss her so much—we had something real—a relationship. Once she broke up with me I didn't care about anything."

"And that's why you've been behaving this way?"

Again he pauses, the debate continuing. "Some of it. I'm mad at myself. She won't forgive me and I'm not sure that she should and I hate myself for that."

"You made a mistake. One that you can't easily fix."

"Do you think that we sabotage our relationships—that we can't be close to someone of the opposite sex?" He asks as if he's a forty year old divorcee.

"What makes you say that? And one failed relationship doesn't spell doom."

"You've had a lot of failures," he points out.

I realize he's right. I have never cheated, but then again maybe I have, just in other ways. "I always blamed my job—the same thing that you blame all the time. Maybe you're not the only one that doesn't like my profession."

"I think it's because of what happened with Mom."

I look at him confused. "What do you mean?"

"It made us afraid—afraid of having our hearts broken again. So we push people away, before they can do it to us."

His words hit me like a slap in the face. He may have practically no experience when it comes to relationships, but he might be onto something. It makes me think of Erin and how I was ready to give it a try—marriage, when she left and my heart felt as if someone had stomped all over it. I refused to share it again until Camilla came around and we all know how that ended. The whole thing was a fabrication and I let it go on, because I had begun to feel something real and ignored the foundation of lies it had been built on. And the biggest casualty had been Cam, who had believed in me because I allowed her to. I still carry that guilt as she is in prison, since she had only stuck around because she had fallen for me. I don't think there is much Liam can do to top that deception.

"Well, we'll always have each other," I tell him.

"Will we? I'm so afraid that something is going to happen to you that I push you away. Because somehow I think that will make it easier if you die."

I open my mouth to say something, but I have no idea how to soothe him nor can I deny his emotions. So I tell him something that I swore I never would. "I have dreams about you dying—I'm afraid of losing you too."

"You do?" He asks, leaning forward.

"Yes. I had them more when you were younger. But the last few weeks since this all started they've returned in full force."

He gets a funny look on his face as if something has just occurred to him, but he doesn't say anything. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry about me."

"How can I not worry about you when you're out there drinking, doing drugs, sleeping around and I have no idea where you are. You've lied to me about your whereabouts and what you are doing. Now I can't even trust technology as you've found a way around it. The lies and deceit have me terrified and I don't know what to do or why you're doing it. I can't focus on much and I have no idea what I'm going to do when you can't come to the district after school."

"Is this why we're home, because Sarge said I can't stay there anymore?"

"It is. The district is no place for you and he was nice enough to give us two weeks to figure it out. But I'm not any closer than I was the night I found you. But I can't be pulled in two directions. I can't be effective at work thinking about you or be here thinking about what I missed at work or even get hurt because I was worried about you."

He stays quiet as this hits him. I know I have touched upon his guilt of me possibly getting hurt because of his actions and I have no doubt it hits him right in the heart.

"This wasn't about you—my—issues." He meanders. "Well, I was mad at you, and I still am, but not so much now."

"Can you please tell me why?" I ask.

He sits silently for nearly a full minute before he gets up and walks towards his bedroom. I open my mouth, ready to yell for him to come back when he opens his backpack and pulls out a notebook. He opens it and slides out an envelope.

To be continued...