“That day, here, when I punched you, was the worst day of my life.”
“Dude, it’s cool, you don’t—”
“I do. I have to say sorry. ’Cause the truth is that I did it deliberately.”
“What are you talking about?”
Kyle shifts again and looks at the taco stand to make sure Jessie’s still there.
“You think it was easy to bring myself to hit you? It went against every instinct in my body. But I did it anyway, you wanna know why? Because I wanted to see if you meant it.”
“Meant what?”
“That you loved her.”
“You punched me as a test?”
Kyle nods, and I exhale loudly.
“Jessie had a big crush on you as a teenager. For years. She thinks I didn’t know, but of course I did.”
“Yeah. She told me.”
“It almost tore her apart. And it tore me apart, ’cause you were too busy chasing tail to even notice. I wanted to make sure this wasn’t a rerun of that. That this time it was a two-way thing.”
I lean back and rub my brow.
“Fuck, dude. I had that black eye for more than a week.”
Kyle shrugs nonchalantly.
“But at least you passed the test.”
I glare at him, then break out into a laugh.
“Dude, I love Jessie. You could have broken my legs and I’d have crawled back to her.”
A couple of asada taco plates appear in front of us, loaded up with sides of rice and beans, lettuce, tomato, and guacamole. There’s also a plate of nachos covered in melted cheese, pico de gallo and jalapenos. It’s become obvious by now that pregnant Jessie has a brutal appetite, but the truth is, I find it pretty cute.
“What are you guys talking about?” Jessie says, reaching for the food before she’s even sitting down.
“Uh…nothing much,” I say, glancing at Kyle. “Just life, love, and the problems we all face.”
“Oh,” Jessie says, as I snatch a nacho from her hand and put it in my mouth. “It sounds like one of your videos.”
“My old videos,” I correct. “I’ve got nothing to confess anymore.”
The idea comes to me sometime in the evening, the house still full of boxes, Jessie gone to catch up with Lorelei and her other Thursday night friends. Maybe it’s just a new way of scratching an old itch, maybe I just find it easier to say certain things this way, or maybe it’s just nice to have a diary of some kind – but whatever it is, I go into the room where we’ve set up the computer, where the evening light casts window-frame shadows across the wall, and sit down in front of the monitor, clearing my throat and fixing my loose painting shirt.
I turn on the webcam. This time I put my face in the frame. This time I’m not worried about the lighting. This time I don’t figure out what to say beforehand. This time it’s just me, being real, being honest. I take a deep breath, check the camera one more time, then hit record.
“Hey. I don’t know when you’ll see this, or what you’ll think when you do. It’s kinda strange to think about. But anyway, it’s me, your dad…and there are a few things I want to say…”
THE END
Afterword
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If you liked Confessions of a Bad Boy, check out this excerpt from THE BET.
My muscles scream, chest on fire, nerve endings twitching like a million thunderbolts across my torso. I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead running down my tensed neck. I glare at the fluorescent light on the gym ceiling, feel the cold metal of the bar against my chest.
That twinge in my triceps should worry me. Gotta meet Jax at the club for drinks in a couple hours. Maybe it was a bad idea to do this big a lift at the end of a workout. Last time a lift went wrong I messed up my thigh so bad I was finger-fucking girls for a month.
Thoughts bear down on me like a load of bricks, pressing down on the ends of the bar, making it even heavier than it really is.
Don’t think, Brando. Just fucking lift.
I repeat the words like a mantra. A rhythmic drumbeat that focuses my mind. I exhale as I push, the rush of adrenaline leaving no room for thoughts, the heat burning all doubt out of me.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
As I pump the bar up and down it feels like I’m lifting the entire building, like I’m trying to push a planet away from my chest. I feel like I’m calling on strength that doesn’t belong to me, strength that comes from the same deep pit of hell the pain in my muscles comes from. I exhale and my breath comes out with a long, low grunt.