“I know.”
“Do you?”
The Father pulled out a chair.
“Can I sit?”
The Boy shrugged.
The Father sat.
Silence.
The Older Biker moved toward the door.
The Boy looked up.
“You leaving?”
“Right outside.”
The Mother stayed.
The Boy had asked her to.
The Father folded his hands.
“I’m sorry.”
The Boy immediately answered.
“For what?”
The Father blinked.
The Boy continued.
“You said you were sorry in a message.”
His voice sharpened.
“I want to know what you think you’re sorry for.”
The Father looked toward the table.
Then forced himself to meet his son’s eyes.
“For leaving.”
The Boy waited.
“For telling myself I was helping when I was actually running.”
The Boy’s expression changed slightly.
The Father continued.
“For missing your birthday.”
The Boy swallowed.
“For not answering when you called me after the school award.”
The Boy looked down.
The Father’s voice became rough.
“For making you believe your wheelchair was something I couldn’t stand seeing.”
The Boy’s eyes snapped back.
The Father looked directly at the chair.
Then at his son.
“It never was.”
The Boy’s eyes filled.
“Then why did you act like it?”
The Father took time.
No excuses.
“I hated myself every time I saw what the accident changed.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew then.”
“People told me.”
“That isn’t the same?”
“No.”
The Father rubbed both palms together.
“I thought if I had braked sooner…”
The Boy shook his head.
“Dad.”
“Or hit the deer.”
“Stop.”
“Or driven slower.”
“Stop.”
The Father did.
The Boy’s voice shook.
“You left because you felt bad about something I never blamed you for.”
“Yes.”
The answer was brutal because it contained no defense.
The Boy laughed once.
Angry.
“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes.”
“You know what I thought?”
The Father shook his head.
“I thought you left because I wasn’t the same kid.”
The Father’s face collapsed.
“No.”
“I thought you didn’t want to deal with me.”
“No.”
“I thought you were embarrassed.”
“Never.”
The Boy wiped his eyes.
“Well, you never told me.”
The Father nodded.
“I know.”
The Boy’s voice broke.
“So I got to invent the answer.”
The Father stared.
That sentence hurt more than anything else.
“I’m sorry.”
This time the apology sounded different.
The Boy looked away.
Nobody spoke for a long time.
Then the Boy asked:
“Why were you across the road?”
The Father breathed out.
“I heard about the sidecar.”
“How?”
“A mechanic I know.”
“Why didn’t you ask me if you could come?”
“Cowardice.”
The Boy looked at him.
The Father continued.
“I wanted to see you.”