Oliver looked like he had been caught stealing candy out of a store. “I . . . I just . . . you wouldn’t talk to me, and Mom’s name was blocked and I—I saw articles at the library and I hadn’t seen her in so long and when I saw that she was looking for me . . . ?” A tear ran down Oliver’s cheek and he hastily wiped it away. “You let me hate her for ten years and the whole time, I should have been hating you.”
“I know—” Keith started to say.
“But the real problem,” Oliver continued like he hadn’t said anything, “is that I can’t hate either one of you, not really. I hate that you put me in this position. But I don’t hate you.”
Keith nodded sadly. “I can’t say enough how sorry I am.”
“You’re right, you can’t.” Oliver rested his elbows on the table and covered his eyes with his hands. “Oh God, I just want this to be over,” he sighed. “I just want to feel normal again.”
Keith started to stand up from the table and Oliver’s head shot up. “Where are you going?”
“Just the bathroom,” Keith said. He attempted a smile but Oliver and I just looked at him. “Be right back.”
As soon as he was gone, Oliver let out a long, low breath and looked at me. “You doing okay?” he asked. “Sorry you got caught up in all of this.”
“I don’t care how I’m doing right now,” I replied, which was the truth. “How are you? Are you all right?”
“I kind of lost it when I first saw him,” Oliver admitted. “I don’t think I let go of him for, like, five minutes.” He smiled a little in embarrassment. “Manly shit, you know.”
Then he wrapped one hand around my wrist, rubbing my arm with the other. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, kissing my temple.
“I am so, so sorry that I was sitting here during all of that,” I admitted. “Seriously, that was a discussion for you and your dad, it wasn’t for—”
“Hey,” Oliver interrupted me. “I told you I’m glad you were here. Don’t apologize.”
“Okay,” I said, but I still felt terrible.
We pulled apart when Keith came back, and the waitress poured more coffee for him and Oliver. “Emmy, I’m so sorry,” Keith said. “I didn’t ask you if you wanted anything. Pie or a pop, maybe?”
“I’m fine,” I said. The idea of food made me want to throw up.
“How are your mom and dad? Is your mom still cooking a lot?” Keith smiled at me and I could tell that he was uncomfortable. It’s one thing to apologize to Oliver, but he hadn’t realized how many people were owed apologies.
“Fine,” I said again. “They’re fine. She owns a catering business now.”
“She always made the best rigatoni, I remember,” Keith said. “I used to try and make it for Oliver, but it never came out right.”
“No, it didn’t,” Oliver said with a laugh. “But your spaghetti’s good. And I like that chicken casserole thing, too.”
“And I made that cake for your tenth birthday, too.” Keith grinned. “Double-decker.”
Oliver was fiddling with his napkin, even as his smile grew wider. “That was a good day,” he said. “And you got me that bike.”
“Taught you how to ride it, too,” Keith said. “Even got the helmet and the knee pads. Made sure you were safe.” He looked at Oliver dead-on this time, his eyes suddenly serious. “I know I didn’t do a lot of it right, but I tried. And I’m trying now, too.”
Keith reached across the table and took Oliver’s hand. “Oliver, I’m taking responsibility for what I did because I don’t want you to have to do that for me anymore.”
Oliver just stared at him. “But I—”
“I know you feel bad that you turned me in,” Keith said, and he sounded so calm, so mollifying. “And I’ve done enough to hurt you. We had seventeen really good years together. I got to see you grow up, but your mom didn’t, and I have to pay the price for that. You’ve paid enough. It’s my turn.”
That’s when I heard the first siren. It was far away still, but the restaurant was quiet enough to hear it. Keith glanced out the window and I realized that he was putting his jacket back on.
Oliver heard it then, too. “Wait, what’s—” He looked out the window, then back at me. “Did you call the police, Emmy?”
I just shook my head, as confused as him. The sirens (there were more than one now) were getting closer, screaming toward us, and Keith started to get out of the booth.
“Wait,” Oliver said. “Did you—Why? Dad, why would you do that?” He seemed as panicked as Keith was calm. “Why would you call them? You have to go, you have to . . .”
But Keith just stood next to the table as two police officers started to get out of their cars. I climbed out of the booth, Oliver scrambling after me, and he grabbed his dad’s arm, tears streaming down his face. “Why?” he asked again, but his voice was broken.
“Come on,” Keith said, holding his arms open. “One last hug.”
Oliver hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then threw his arms around his dad. They were both crying together, and Keith rested his hand on the back of Oliver’s head and held him tight. “I’m so sorry,” I heard Keith whisper. “I love you.”