Hold On

He also whispered, “Love you, Dad.”


“I know you do, son, and love you too. You make a kid, you’ll know just how much,” Dave whispered back.

He knew that. His dad didn’t say it often, but he didn’t shy away from it.

Since Garrett could remember, before his mother died and after, Dave Merrick always showed it.

Talking low, Garrett stated, “You’re not to blame about Mom.”

Dave didn’t reply.

“You aren’t, and Rocky and me never blamed you,” Garrett went on.

The guilt and pain sat in his dad’s eyes where it had been for years, never leaving, never even dulling.

“Mom wouldn’t either,” Garrett finished. “And you know it.”

Surprisingly, his dad spoke then.

“I know it.”

At least there was that.

Dave Merrick said no more.

And Garrett had said what he could. Whether his father took it in, that was his choice.

But he’d said what needed to be said.

Father and son sat at the kitchen table, where his mother put flowers as often as she could, and they just looked at each other.

It took a long time to say it and now there was nothing more to say.

But Garrett learned something else right then at that table.

With anything important, it was better late than never.

“I got a homicide to solve,” Garrett eventually told his old man.

Dave tipped his head to the table. “Then I got a cup a’ joe I best be pourin’ in a travel mug.”

They got up. His dad poured his coffee in a travel mug. He also walked his son to the door.

“Want Cher and her boy here for dinner, Garrett,” Dave ordered. “Soon’s you can work that out.”

He stopped and looked at his dad, muttering, “You got it.”

He moved in, wrapped an arm around his old man, and slapped his back twice.

He got three back.

That was his father; he always bested on the back slaps.

Grinning, Garrett let him go, lifted the mug, and took off out the door.

“Careful out there,” Dave called.

“Always,” Garrett called back.

He got in his truck and drove to the station.

Count your lucky stars you’re able to hold tight to your woman so you can weather the goddamned storm.

Fuck, he missed his mom.

And he had a great dad.

On the way up the back stairs to the bullpen, his phone sounded with a text.

He pulled it out and read, Eggs and toast are not culinary brilliance. Dinner tonight will be. Warning, I’m introducing vegetables to my kid’s diet. Before hitting your pad, please secure an adrenaline shot in case he goes into shock.

Shit, Cher. Damned funny.

And she had been that way with him since he knew her.

She gave that to everyone else.

But looking back, he’d definitely had his head up his ass. She’d pulled out all the stops to make him laugh, to give him the impression she was just one of the guys but with tits, which meant hiding the fact that he was not like Colt to her. Or Sully. Morrie. Mike. Cal. Tanner. And not because he wasn’t married.

Because she was into him.

Shit.

…weather the goddamned storm.

He texted back, What time you need me home?

He gave Mike a chin lift as he walked to his desk.

He was seated at it, ready to brief with Mike before they took on their day, when he got back, It’s not me fighting crime. You tell me when and dinner will be ready.

Will do. But later. Good? he texted back.

You got it, boss, she replied.

“Everything okay?” Mike asked.

He looked to his partner.

“Yes,” Garrett answered. That word was solid because he meant it in many ways, not all of which he was going to communicate right then. “You know where I can get an extra bed? Need to convert my second bedroom to an eleven-year-old kid’s room.”

Mike’s lips twitched. After years of his partner being the town player, he thought this was hilarious.

“Nope,” he answered. “But I’ll ask Dusty. Maybe Rhonda has something.”

Garrett nodded and reached out to turn on his computer.

He didn’t get there.

“You hear from Ryker?” Mike asked.