The Mistake

I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety. Good years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.

When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s backs.

Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.

Both his legs were crushed. And I mean crushed—he was lucky to escape without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.

But again, the universe had another fuck you for the Logans. Dad was in so much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.

So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he dies.

“What do we do?” I ask grimly.

“Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”

Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged there. Why is it our job to sacrifice everything for him?

Because he’s your father and he’s sick.

Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn.

Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.

Things would be so much easier if he died.

As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes, but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and taught me how to tie my shoes.

When he was sober, he was a really good dad, and that just makes this whole situation so much fucking worse. Because I can’t hate him. I don’t hate him.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking…” I trail off, too afraid of Jeff’s reaction. Coughing, I fish another cigarette out of the pack and head for the door. “Let’s talk outside for a sec.”

A moment later, I take a deep drag of my smoke, hoping the nicotine will bring me a much-needed dose of confidence. Jeff eyes me in disapproval before releasing a defeated sigh.

“Give me one of those.”

As he lights up, I exhale a cloud of smoke and force myself to continue. “I’ve had some interest from an agent in New York. This really big sports agent.” I hesitate. “He thinks I’ll have no trouble signing with a team if I test out free agency.”

Jeff’s features instantly harden.

“That could mean a decent signing bonus. And a contract. Money, Jeff.” Desperation tightens my throat. “We could hire someone else to run the garage, a full-time nurse for Dad. Maybe even pay off the house if the contract is big enough.”

My brother barks out a derisive laugh. “How big of a contract do you think you’ll actually land, John? Let’s be serious here.” He shakes his head. “Look, we talked about this. If you wanted to go pro, you should’ve gone the Major Junior route. But you wanted the college degree. You can’t have it both ways.”

Yeah, I did choose the degree. Because I knew damn well that if I picked the alternative, I’d never leave the league, and that would mean screwing over my brother. They would’ve had to pry that hockey stick out of my cold dead hands to stop me from playing.

But now that the time for Jeff and me to trade places is drawing near, I’m terrified.

“It could be a lot of money,” I mumble, but my feeble attempt to convince him doesn’t work—Jeff is already shaking his head.