“Tell me, Doc. Have you ever lost a loved one?” I don’t expect him to answer. This isn’t about him, but for some reason he does.
“My daughter passed away five years ago.”
I school my features and ask him the same question he put on me. “And does her death affect how you’re doing your job in this room today?” He doesn’t acknowledge my question this time, but he doesn’t need to. I still get my answer.
I may have blown my chance at being team leader, hell, maybe even jeopardized my spot on the team, but I refuse to sit here and be torn down while he looks for something that isn’t there.
Yeah, my father took his life.
Did it change who I thought I was?
No.
It changed who I thought he was.
And therein lies the issue of what his death had over me.
I just wasn’t ready to address it.
“I think it’s your last one, Hetch,” RJ, my favorite bartender, tells me later that afternoon, when my fucked-up day is over and I’m sitting back with a beer or ten at my local bar, The Elephant. Since it’s close to Trebook’s police station, the team often comes in after a long shift. Sometimes we might stay for one round, other times it might end up an all-nighter. I've already been here for a few hours, trying to drown my demons with one too many beers.
“Nah, man, can still remember too much.” I think I slur, but can’t be sure. I’m pretty certain I’m about to be cut off.
“Maybe it’s time you start remembering,” he offers before moving down to the other end of the bar.
My mind tries to fight it, the beer helping to numb it a little, but like every time I get to this stage, broken memories of three years ago start flashing back.
His vacant stare holds my gaze as a flicker of something passes between us.
Him understanding my fears.
Me accepting his weaknesses.
“I love you, Liam, always know that.”
It happens so fast.
The change of his aim.
The discharge of his gun.
The fall of his body.
The agony of my screams.
The roar of sirens.
Yet nothing is as deafening as the stillness of the moment.
“I take it from the state you’re in, it didn't go well.” Sterling’s voice startles me from the past.
Fuck, I’m not sure what’s worse. The fucked-up interview, the memory of a past I continue to run from, or this present moment that has my best friend breathing down my neck.
It takes me a few minutes to rein in my raging heart before responding. “It went fucking awesome, Sterlin’,” I slur while slapping the stool next to me for him to sit on. “In fact, I’m celebrating.” I lift my beer and salute it to no one in particular.
“Yeah? What are we celebrating tonight?” He takes a seat on the stool and waves off RJ. I cough out a humorless laugh, unable to come up with some bullshit line.
“Jesus, that bad?”
“You know how it is. What it always comes back to.” I don’t need to say my father’s name. Sterling knows what I’m talking about. It’s always been this way between us, always will be. Best friends for thirty years. Fellow beat officers for six, SWAT teammates for two, brothers for life. We’ve been through everything together.
“The fucker didn't think about anyone but himself,” I whisper when he doesn’t respond. “Didn’t think what it would do to me, how it would fucking hinder me.” I’m rambling, but it’s not the first time in the last three years Sterling’s found me this way. I’m lucky he has my back and doesn’t report my ass.
“Come on, let's get you home.” Sterling drops a hundred on the bar, closing out my tab.
“I’m not fucking ready to go.” I try to call RJ back over, but Sterling has me up and out of my stool before I have a chance.
“Yeah, well you gotta. RJ cut you off. You’re shit out of luck now.”
The fucker.
“What a piece of shit, let me have a word with him.” I try to turn back, but Sterling’s hold on me doesn’t waver.
“You can have a word with him another night. Come on, don’t you have a shift tomorrow? You need to sober the fuck up.”
“No point in even fucking going,” I tell him, throwing an arm over his shoulder as he walks me out to his truck.
“You need to stop this bullshit, Hetch.” He scolds me like I’m some petulant child while pushing me into the cab of his jacked-up Ford. He’s right. I’m a fucking mess; I know it. I just don’t know how to control it.
“Yeah,” is all I say instead. It’s probably not the most comforting endorsement of my mental wellbeing, but after today, it’s all I have to give.
“I’m fucking serious, Hetch,” he warns before closing the door and walking around the front of his truck to the driver side.
“You speak to your mom or Kota today?” he asks, starting the truck up.
“Not in the last week or so.” I try to think back to the last time I had a conversation with my mom and sister.
“Spoke to Kota yesterday,” he admits, pulling out of the parking lot. I rest my head back and close my eyes, waiting for another lecture. “She’s worried about you.”
And there we have it. What this time of year always brings.