The guard was beside me now, his hand on his billy club, just in case. But I’d never give him a reason to use it. I quickly offered an apology for my misconduct and hurried away from the woman I’d once believed cared about me. And you know what? Maybe there had been one point when she did. Maybe that time in the hospital, when I’d had my face cut open, was the last. But she didn’t give a fuck about me now—that was for damn sure—so why did I even attempt to give one about her?
Except I did. And what she had said, I couldn’t shake it off as I slumped to the floor of the library and held my head in my hands.
My parole hearing was in a week. I’d likely get out of here, unless they really just liked my company that much.
Where was I supposed to go? If I couldn’t move back home, what the hell was going to happen to me? Did the entire town truly hate me as much as she’d said they did? What the hell future did I have in a place where nobody wanted me—not even my own mother?
Unless I never left.
I had a life here.
I had shelter, food, friends.
Why the hell would I ever want to leave?
I listened to the shuffle of sneakered feet entering the library. I dropped my hands to watch Gene—an older guy who had thought it’d be a good idea to break into a string of houses after losing his job—walk toward a shelf not far from where I sat. Without thinking, I stood up, grabbed the heaviest book I could reach—sorry, Stephen King—and made my fast approach.
I was going to bring that book down onto his head. I prayed I wouldn’t kill him, but if I did, my apologies to Gene, but at least I would ensure my spot here for the rest of my shitty life.
The book was high, ready to drop, when Gene turned to find me looming over him like the angel of fucking death. His eyes were immediately huge, his hands raised to shield his face.
“Soldier, what the—”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Harry hurried into the library. “All right, Soldier, put down the book.”
I stared right at my friend, barely able to focus on his silver glasses, and shook my head. “Harry, I have to. I-I don’t—”
“Soldier, give me the book. We’ll talk, okay? You don’t want to do anything to Gene.”
He was right. I didn’t want to do anything to Gene. I didn’t want to do anything to anybody—never had. My resolve crumbled quickly, and I dropped The Stand to the floor. Harry told Gene to get the hell out of there as I turned and rested my forehead against a shelf, and then I felt Harry’s warm hand against my back.
“What happened, son?”
Son.
Nobody but Grampa had ever called me son. Nobody else had ever treated me like one. I didn't know what it was like to have a biological dad, but I did know what it had been like to look up to Grampa for the first twelve years of my life. And for the last eight years, I knew what it had been like to turn to Harry. And I turned to him then, not caring that I was supposed to be this big, tough guy, and I let him hug me as I bent at the waist and shed a few silent tears against his shoulder.
“What happened?” he repeated in a hushed whisper. “You can tell me.”
I collected my damn emotions and took a step away from him, hastily wiping my eyes against my arm. “She doesn't want me coming home,” I told him, knowing he'd know exactly who I was talking about. “She said I'm the fucking embarrassment, that I ruined her life.”
Harry's expression hardened to stone as he shook his head. But Harry was also one to give people the benefit of the doubt, just as he'd done for me when we first met all those years ago. And he said, “Well, sometimes, people need time to process their emotions. Your mother has had a long time without you at home now, so maybe … maybe she just needs a little more time to get used to you being back.”
“Oh, you have a lot more faith in her than I do, man,” I grumbled, shaking my head and stuffing my hands into the pockets of my pants. “You don't know my mom.”
“No,” he agreed, nodding. “But I do know you, and I know your mom would be a fuckin' lunatic to not want you in her life. So, give her a little time, all right? Your hearing is, what, next week?”
I nodded.
“Okay. So, that gives her a whole week to think. You're gonna get out, Soldier; I know it. You deserve it. And when you do, you go home, and I bet she'll be singing a very different tune.”
My eyes lifted to the fluorescent lights running the length of the library ceiling, and I chewed at my bottom lip for a moment before replying, “Well, Harry, I hope you're right. But forgive me for being realistic.”
***
A week later, I had my hearing, and I waited like a kid on Christmas to hear the news.
Two months after that, the board made the decision to release me back into the world, and two more months went by before I was receiving fist bumps, handshakes, and even hugs from the friends I'd made inside. I promised to write them letters, and I made them promise to come see me if and when they got out themselves.
And then, there at the end of the line, on his day off, was Harry.
In an instant, a flash of memory came rushing in from nearly ten years ago. I had been much younger and scrawnier and way, way, way more scared then but just as tall when I walked through those gates and made reluctant eye contact with this same man before he ushered me through to Receiving and Discharge. I had noted then that, while the rest of the guards manhandled us and spoke in condescending tones, Harry never did. And although I never thought of the others as bad men for looking down on us, I always considered Harry better because he never did.
Now, I stood before him—not in prison garb, but jeans and a plain black sweatshirt—and for the first time, we felt like equals even if Harry never treated me as anything but.
“I'm not saying goodbye to you,” I warned him, defiant as I hoisted the duffel bag higher on my shoulder.
He scoffed despite the heavy swallow of his throat. “I'm not saying goodbye to you either,” he insisted, grinning before pulling me in for a tight bear hug. “It's been a pleasure getting to know you, son. You're a good man.”
“And you're the best.”
He released me from his hold and patted my shoulder. “I'm gonna miss you.”
I couldn't say the words back, not without choking up, but I nodded. Because I was going to miss him too. More than he could possibly know.
I was getting really fucking tired of missing people.
“Oh, hold on a sec.” He held up a finger and dug a hand into the bag he'd brought with him. He pulled out a wrapped box a bit smaller than my hand and gave it to me. “Merry Christmas, Soldier.”
“Harry, what the fuck?” I turned the box over in my hands. “You're not supposed to get me shit.”
He shrugged casually. “You're a free man now. I can do whatever the hell I want. But, hey, don't open it now, okay? Wait until you're in the car or home or whatever.”
Home. Fuck, I couldn’t believe I was actually going home.
I hated the way my limbs and hands shook as I pulled the duffel bag off my shoulder and put the present inside. Harry didn't get it … or, hell, maybe he did—what the hell did I know? But the thing was, I hadn't received a present—a real, honest-to-God present, all wrapped up and shit—since I had been twelve years old. Mom hadn’t given enough of a shit to get us a tree, let alone buy me a present and wrap it up. With this thing in my bag, I hardly knew what to do with my emotions as I pulled the duffel back up my shoulder and bit at my inner cheek until the urge to cry or jump around like a little kid subsided.