The Bars Between Us

by A. S. Teague

  “You don’t know how I feel.” I step back, breaking the contact between us. The place where her hand was just resting still tingles.

  “I’m so fucking stupid,” she moans, her hands in fists at her sides. “I thought you were different. But maybe Nana was right. Maybe you are trash.”

  We stand in the stairwell shooting insults like arrows.

  I shrug. “Well, it’s no wonder you liked me so fucking much, since you came from the epitome of scum.”

  Her lips quiver, but not a single tear falls as she stands in front of me while we trade jabs.

  “Turns out you were right all along. We aren’t so different after all. We both have losers for parents.”

  Her cheeks redden, her eyes flashing with fury, but she keeps her composure. Her voice is steady as she reminds me of what I am. “You bastard.”

  I laugh, wanting her to believe that she isn’t having any effect on me. “You’re right. Thanks to your beloved father in there, I am a bastard.”

  She stomps a foot, denial flying out of her mouth so loudly the words bounce off the walls. “He didn’t do it! He didn’t murder your father!”

  “No? How the fuck do you know? You thought he was dead up until a few days ago.” I sneer as Grace squeezes her eyes shut.

  She opens her eyes as she takes a step toward me and lowers her voice. “He wrote me letters. Lots of letters. He explained what happened in them. I’ve read them a hundred times since I found them. I know he’s telling the truth. Please, Bronn, you have to listen to me. Come with me, read the letters yourself. Please,” she begs, her eyes full of unshed tears.

  I want what she says to be true. Wouldn’t that make this all so much easier if the things that I’d believed my whole life weren’t true?

  The way she watches me with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth and her face hopeful makes my entire body ache. I want to pull her to me, to cover her mouth with my own, to pour every emotion that I’ve experienced today into our kiss. I’m desperate for the connection to the one person that has ever truly understood me.

  But before I can do just that, I shake my head.

  What the fuck am I thinking?

  I’ve spent years hating that man. There will never be a reason to make me want to believe a single word he has to say.

  “No,” I tell her firmly. “Your dad’s lying to you. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. Don’t waste your time on him. Your grandmother was fucking crazy, but she was right about one thing. You and your mother were better off without Mickey fucking Chumley.”

  Her lip quivers, but she doesn’t cry. She stands up straighter and squares her shoulders. Clearing her throat, she tries one more time. “Please. Just come home with me.”

  I shake my head. I want nothing more than to go with her. To go back to the way that things were before this. I want to take her pain away, to be able to support her as she deals with the fact that she’s been lied to her entire life. That’s what I should be doing right now, holding her and reassuring her that everything will be okay.

  But I can’t.

  It’s not Grace’s fault, but knowing that doesn’t change a thing.

  I shake my head, unwilling to open my mouth and say anything more. I’ve already said too much. Turning on my heel, I burst out of the stairwell.

  The sun is gone, covered by storm clouds, and fat raindrops begin to fall on my head.

  The irony of it doesn’t escape me, and I laugh bitterly.

  The weather perfectly mirrors the storm that’s brewing inside me.

  In the matter of a few days, my life had fallen completely apart. How it happened was still incomprehensible, but it had happened nonetheless, and I was at a complete loss as to where to go from here.

  Bronn walking away from me was almost more painful than finding out my father hadn’t died on that hot spring day all those years ago. My dad hadn’t chosen to leave me, to abandon me, but Bronnson had. We’d said horrible things to one another, slinging insults that I don’t think either of us meant. And for a second, it looked like he was going to hear me out, maybe even change his mind.

  I’d clung to that moment and the consideration that I’d seen in his eyes. But the hope had been short lived, reality crashing back down on me.

  I’d collapsed in that stairwell, my sobs echoing in the emptiness—the emptiness that matched the way I felt inside. I don’t know how long I’d stayed there, crying until there were no tears left to fall, but eventually Riley had found me and carried me to his car. He hadn’t taken me back to my grandmother’s, thank God. I don’t think I could have stomached the sight of the house.

  I know that I need to get out of bed and pull myself together, but I just can’t seem to find the will to move. As soon as Riley had pulled into his driveway, I’d sprinted from the car and locked myself in his guest bedroom. He’d tried to check on my several times throughout the afternoon and evening, but eventually had gotten the point when I refused to acknowledge his presence. I’d laid in the bed, alternating between crying and staring at the ceiling.

  Bronn plagued my dreams during the fitful snatches of sleep I’d gotten, and I couldn’t shake the despair that lingered. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face and watched as he walked away from me. I kept trying to push the thoughts of him away, but the profound ache in my chest wouldn’t allow it. It was as if he had ripped my heart from my chest and taken it with him as he strode away, never once looking back.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  I wanted to.

  But I couldn’t.

  He believed that my father murdered his dad.

  He’d spent his whole life living with that knowledge and letting the hate fester. There was no way to expect him to suddenly change his mind and welcome my father with open arms. I couldn’t expect him to believe me. At least not yet.

  He needed time.

  And even though it killed me, I would give it to him.

  My stomach is in knots, the fear of the unknown so great that I almost didn’t come.

  The prison had loomed large when I’d arrived, the barbwire fencing not just a movie dramatization, but a reality, and it was something that was both terrifying and depressing at the same time.

  Riley had tried to come with me, but this was something that I had to do on my own.

  He’d discovered the connection between Bronn and my father yesterday morning, and that was the important news he’d been trying to tell me. Maybe if I had known, things would have gone differently. But it didn’t matter, it was done and there was no going back to that courtroom and changing things.

  I’d reassured him that I didn’t blame him, and little by little, my resentment toward him was waning.

  I am perched on the edge of a cold metal seat after having gone through the series of gates and metal detectors. Now I wait for the guards to bring my father in. I am chewing my nails, a habit that I’ve never had before, while my mind spins in a million directions.

  I don’t know what to expect from today’s visit.

  Since he had added me to the approved visitors’ list, I know he is willing to talk to me. And his reaction after seeing me yesterday had me hopeful that he was happy about it.

  But it has been seventeen years. And he has been in prison all that time.

  Would he be the same Daddy I remembered?

  Probably not.

  That thought terrifies me. I don’t know what I will say to him. I don’t know if he will want me to touch him or hug him or hold his hand. I hope that he does because I ach to do all of those things.

  The room fills with other people, all here to see their loved ones. The group varies, the people coming from all walks of life. There are old women who must be here to see their children. Children, like me, waiting to see their fathers.

  As the last visitor trickles in, the guards begin to escort the inmates in, and one by one they enter the room. Relief floods my veins when I see that they aren’t shackled, the first prisoners comi
ng in able to hug and kiss their family members.

  I’m holding my breath and my lungs begin to burn when I finally see my father shuffle through the door.

  His eyes land on the table that I’m seated at and he makes his way over to me.

  The man before me isn’t the same defeated man from yesterday. Today, his shoulders are squared, his head held high. His face is still haggard, something that I fear it will always be from his years in this hell, but he’s smiling and his eyes are shining brightly at me.

  My breath leaves my chest in a loud whoosh, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, but the moment my dad stops in front of me I release it and launch myself at him. I’m desperate to hug this man for the first time in seventeen long, agonizing years.

  He wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly and with his lips in my hair, murmuring my name over and over.

  We stand like that, arm in arm, his hand rubbing my back while I sob on his shoulder for what feels like an eternity. I absorb the way it feels to be held by my father for the first time since I was a child.

  When my eyes are finally dry I pull away, and with a chaste laugh tell him, “I’m sorry.” I swipe a finger under my eyes, hoping that I haven’t smeared my mascara. “I’ve cried more in the last week than I have my entire life.”

  My dad’s face softens. “Bear, you don’t have nothin’ to apologize for.”

  My heart stutters, hearing his voice call me by the pet name he had for me. “Bear,” I murmur. “God, I’ve missed hearing that.”

  We sit across from each other and he reaches a hand across the table. I latch onto it, determined not to let go until I absolutely have to.

  The silence between us is awkward as we both assess the other. I wonder if he’s trying to memorize my face the same way I did his. I wonder if he approves of what he sees?

  Do I look the way he imagined when he wrote that letter on my eighteenth birthday?

  As if he were a mind reader, he speaks, his voice steady but soft. “You look like your mama. But my golly, you are so beautiful. I don’t believe that I had any part of making you.”

  I laugh softly, blushing at the compliment.

  “Daddy, there are so many things I want to tell you. To ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  I’m afraid to ask him about what really happened, but the questions are burning in my brain, and my need to know everything grows with each passing minute.

  I want to get him out of here, and to do that I need to know every detail, no matter how tough they may be to hear.

  A part of me, however, wants to just talk to him, to tell him about myself, to ask him questions about him. Like his favorite color, his favorite candy, stupid stuff that may be unimportant to some. But to me, I need to know every detail about him, to make up for lost time. Those are all things a daughter would know about her father if she had grown up with him.

  The room around us is noisy, the other inmates and visitors talking. Some are weeping, others laughing, but most are sitting just as we are, holding hands across the table, heads bent together, while they talk, connect, and love one another.

  “Grace, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But for now, I really just want to get to know my daughter.”

  I can’t refuse his request, and in truth I’m relieved that we’ll spend our first visit together reconnecting. Something that’s long overdue.

  “Have you talked to her?” Dani asks the moment she walks into the office.

  I don’t even bother looking up from my paperwork. “Fuck that.”

  She sighs, the sound echoing in the silent room. When she flops into the chair across from my desk, I mimic her sigh and shove the papers that I’d been going over aside. It’s obvious she’s here for a reason, and I may as well get this over with.

  “Come out with it,” I huff.

  I’d come straight home after the hearing, Dani silent in the car beside me, and dropped her off at the coffee shop before making a beeline for the bar. I’d spent the rest of the night throwing myself into work, my mind never wandering far from the events of the day.

  I’d been in a terrible mood, but I didn’t think it had been that obvious. Apparently, I was wrong, because the place had cleared out early, not even the regulars wanting to hang around. I was thankful for the solitude though, needing to be by myself and not wanting to ruin my business by taking my anger and hurt out on anyone that didn’t deserve it.

  After locking up I sat down at the bar, going straight for the bottle, not even bothering to use a glass. Even though I’d wanted to drown my sorrows, I didn’t.

  In the past, I’d always used alcohol as my crutch, my escape. But it only ever brought temporary relief, and usually the aftermath of my benders was far worse than the reason I had gone on it to begin with.

  Alcohol had always been a way to numb the pain, the sadness, the ugly thoughts that would run through my head. But I was already numb without the liquor-induced fogginess.

  I wanted to fucking feel again.

  Dani snaps her fingers, waving her hand in my face. “Hello? You there?”

  With a shake of my head, I apologize. “Sorry.”

  She leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees, her eyes level with mine. “Talk to me, Bronn. Tell me what’s going on in there.”

  Her face is laced with concern, a fucking look I am all too familiar with.

  Guilt washes over me in waves, a feeling that I’m not sure I’ve ever really experienced before.

  “I’m sorry, Dani,” I tell her, my eyes meeting hers and holding her gaze. She blinks several times, the concern turning to confusion.

  “For what?”

  “For always making you look at me like that.” I wave my hand in her direction. “You’ve spent most of your life worried about me, always a concerned look on your face. And it’s my damn fault.”

  “You’re my little brother.” She lifts a shoulder, a halfhearted smile on her face. “I’m supposed to look out for you.”

  “I ever tell you thanks? Ever once?” I ask sincerely.

  When her face registers shock, my stomach sinks.

  I’ve been a fucking asshole.

  She continues to stare at me, her eyes wide, as though I’ve just told her I’m really the Pope, making me feel even shittier.

  “Bronn…” she whispers. “I don’t need you to tell me thank you.”

  “Well, you may not need it, but you fucking deserve it,” I whisper fiercely. “You’ve put up with all of my shit over the years. I don’t know how you’ve done it.”

  “All I have ever needed from you was for you to live a good, happy life. Because that’s what you deserve. What you’ve always deserved.” She pauses, swallowing hard, her face becoming serious.

  I know that she’s about to launch into a lecture, but for once I’m not pissed by it. I want to hear what she has to say.

  “These last few months, honey, I have seen a change in you that I didn’t think I would ever see.” Her eyes cut away from mine, but just as fast she looks back and sits up straighter. “And it’s because of Grace.”

  My stomach sinks when I realize where this is going, but I’m determined to keep my cool. What I’m not ready to do is talk about Grace Monroe.

  I shake my head. “Please, don’t go there.”

  She holds up a hand. “Hear me out, Bronnson.”

  I press my lips together, leaning back in my chair to signal that I’m listening. I’ll give her the benefit of that, but it’s a waste of her time and her breath, and I think even she knows it.

  “You remember a few weeks before Grace showed up, that night we went out together?”

  I nod, remembering what she’s referring to.

  “You got into that fight over a fucking seat at the bar. A fist fight, over a bar stool.”

  It had been one of many fights over trivial things. It didn’t take much to set me off.

  “But then Grace showed up.
And you haven’t been in a fight since. And other than that one night, you’ve barely had more than a drink or two. Even last night, you didn’t get shitty. You know, I’d braced myself for the phone call, the one where I had to come bail your ass out of jail, again. And it never fucking came. And I want to say that I’m surprised. But I’m not. Because you aren’t the angry, self-loathing asshole you used to be. And it’s because of Grace Monroe.”

  “You mean Grace Chumley?” I snap. Saying her name causes me to flinch, the act of the words leaving my mouth almost painful.

  “Whatever her name is, it doesn’t matter! She didn’t kill our father. And she can’t control who her parents are any more than you could control who yours were.” Her words hurt, because they’re true.

  How can I hold Grace’s father against her?

  “You know that, Bronnson, you just don’t want to admit it.”

  I shake my head and push to my feet. Not wanting to continue this conversation any longer, I stride to the door, pausing when my hand hits the knob.

  I whirl toward my sister, still sitting in the chair, her face a mix of both patience and hope. “Dani, I appreciate what you’re saying. And maybe you’re right. God knows I wouldn’t have chosen my mother if given the chance.”

  She jumps to her feet. “Then call her. Go to her. Talk to her. Don’t you think she needs you right now? God, don’t you need her?”

  “No.”

  “No?” she questions, her face falling. The hope that was shining in her eyes begins to dim, and that pesky guilt tugs at my heart again. I hate being the reason for the sadness that’s taken over her pretty features, but it is what it is.

  “Listen, she may not be able to choose who her parents are, but she’s insistent that he didn’t fucking kill Dad. Our dad, Dani.” I don’t understand why she isn’t just as upset by all of this as I am. “And she’s going to want a relationship with that man. How the hell am I supposed to sit by while she forges ahead trying to save him? Can you fucking imagine Christmas? Going to visit the man who destroyed us and wishing him a happy holiday?” I laugh, the sound hollow, devoid of humor. “There’s no chance of it ever working. There are bars between us now, and nothing is going to make that fact any better.”