1. The Best Friend, Beau

January 2006

Mobile, Alabama

The pace of the procession from the burial site to the reception area slowed as my mom's high-heeled shoes sank in the damp grass with each step she took. We lagged behind the crowd of mourners who'd gathered to bid their final goodbyes. There had to be a thousand people in attendance today.

In the midst of them were both the young and older men who had learned to play football under my father's tutelage. They ambled past us, quietly offering their sincere condolences at my shitty old man's untimely passing.

I'd offer the appropriate nod of appreciation or acceptance, not that I meant either. But it was the only gesture I felt comfortable enough to give since I'd spent some part of everyday begging the universe to end the old bastard's life as brutally as possible. Seemed my requests were heard.

Fortunately, no one else was injured when my father blew through a red light, clipping the back end of a supersized Dodge pickup truck. My father had no chance, driving at full speed in his beater SUV. He was propelled airborne, flipping over and again, out of control, until a closed Starbucks got in his way.

The scene was brutal to say the least. The local police reported that my father died on impact. And perhaps he did. But those same officers said my father's blood alcohol level was below the legal limit. I didn't believe that lie. My dad drank all day every day. He'd lost his job at Samford University in Birmingham. He had little choice but to relocate back to Mobile with a suspended driver's license due to multiple arrests for driving under the influence.

I supposed the Mobile PD had shown my father leniency due to his reputation in the city. They usually helped him home instead of formally arresting him. In the end, their grace gave him power, not the help he really needed.

My mom patted my arm, drawing my attention to her. "Son, you're being rude."

"How can they be sorry he's gone?" I whispered.

"You're almost done. Hang on for a few more minutes. We'll walk through the reception then leave. Can you be my big boy for a little longer." She teased me with my old childhood moniker even though I was twenty years old. Happy memories of better times made it impossible not to smile. If I remembered correctly, there was usually a cookie involved to convince me to behave.

I stared hopeful that there was something in the variety of a home-baked chocolate chip treat in her pocket. I loved those things. It took a moment, but she caught on and responded with a dramatic eye roll. "I'll bake them for you when we get home."

"Look at you, sproutin' up like a beanstalk. Seems like you've outgrown your grandad," Arnold Williams, a friend of my grandfather's said from behind me. "How tall are you these days?"

Arnold stared up at me with a good-natured grin. He was thinner than I remembered, more wrinkled, and shorter too.

"He's six-three and two hundred and thirty pounds. Can you believe it, Arnie?" my mom answered for me, again highlighting my lack of communication skill.

"I tend to keep my belly full," I added with a nod, watching Arnold's widening grin. With fewer teeth and less hair, his weathered face creased with amusement. A pang of sadness squeezed my heart, wishing either of my grandfathers could be there today. Had they survived, my life would have turned out so differently.

"I can sure see that." He chuckled, then shifted his gaze toward the parking lot, hesitating before heading in that direction. "It's chilly out here. I keep hearin' that we're warm for this time of year, but I think they got it wrong."

"Thank you for coming today," my mom said sweetly.

Arnold paused, gazing between me and my mom before focusing only on me. With his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his voice got stronger as he said, "You were good to him. He didn't deserve it, especially separatin' you from your mama."

I let go of an unsteady breath. No one, except maybe Scott, ever saw it from my side. Others acted in awe of the athlete my father had created, or in the NFL vision he had for our future, but never for me alone.

A swell of anger built swiftly. I ground my teeth into the flesh of my mouth as a tidal wave of undealt with emotion threatened to pull me under.

Fortunately, my mother came to the rescue once again. "Thank you, Arnold. It's been a challenging few years. We're going to the reception area then taking off. Beau needs to put all of this behind him and begin to live the life he wants."

Arnold patted my bicep and started toward the parking lot again. "You sure do."

We walked the remaining distance to the reception area, which consisted of a giant tent placed close to the family burial plots. It was a true countryside gathering.

As I stood at the entry, I steadied myself, blocking my feelings. No more bursts of anger to contend with. My mom waited patiently at my side.

The crowds of mourners fell silent and shifted their attention toward me. Evidently, my reputation preceded me. I sensed their wariness. Nothing new there. Most people treated me as if I was one quake away from erupting.

Luckily, the strong tangy scent of fresh BBQ waffled through the tent, stealing my spotlight. Scott's father, Mr. Lee, was grill-master of the day. The reigning Dog River Festival champion of Backyard BBQs for two years in a row.

Leaning down, I whispered quietly to my mom, "Don't fix a plate no matter how good it smells. We'll grab something on the way home."

Her nod of agreement clearly indicated we were in sync, like usual. My light in an otherwise dark world. The insurmountably heavy burden my father placed on my shoulders was rapidly lifting in a wonderful and appreciated way. We entered the tent side by side. She effortlessly held the conversation as we did one complete pass of the dining space.

Ten minutes later, we were out on the other side of the tent with a to-go box big enough to feed a family of ten.

Ten. Ten.

Dasham.

Dash.

In an instant, Dash's smiling face appeared vividly in my mind. My beacon in an otherwise lonely, lost life. Dash's piercing blue eyes gave me a source of solace from the moment I was whisked away by my father.

After all these years, Dash still mattered. I wondered now if I could finally let him go.

One Week Later,

Birmingham, Alabama

"What about any of this?" I glanced over my shoulder toward Scott Lee who had his head stuck inside my father's crappy old refrigerator. With the loud knocking the condenser made every time it came on, I was certain it was on its last leg. "It looks foul in here."

"Go in careful," I cautioned, lifting from the backbreaking work of scrubbing the grimy, crumbling forty-year-old linoleum floor. "There might be botulism inside there." I raised then wiggled my yellow plastic gloved fingers to encourage him to grab a pair before diving in. "Glove up. Masks are over there too."

Scott's head peeked over the door; his eyes narrowed as he assessed my level of seriousness. I grinned and nodded my certainty at how disgusting it could get, then cocked my head toward the disposable hazmat suit I'd bought as a precaution.

"I ain't scared of nothin'," he declared boldly and bravely, and swung the single door open wide so I might better see the contents. As if on a death wish, he reached an arm boldly inside, swiping all the old, rotting groceries off the top shelf into the trash bag in his hand. "Your dad's gross," he added. A second swipe resulted in even more clanking and crashing.

"How did your father manage to buy two houses?" Scott grumbled; his head stuck inside the box.

"I don't know, but we're nearly finished with the kitchen." I told the lie I'd been using all week to convince myself to continue going. It was losing some of its motivational power. However, this time, we were in fact closer to the end. "You don't have to stay. You've done more than enough."

"I got four days before I go home. Lauren's havin' a baby shower this weekend. I'm not goin' anywhere around there, or I'll get roped into being a part of that female fest. You're stuck with me until Monday morning. Quit trying to toss me out."

"It's weird you're havin' a baby." A massive understatement but still true. More than that, Scott was genuinely excited about being a dad. Throughout all the years of our friendship, close to twenty now, neither of us wanted to have children.

"Yeah," Scott replied, using his index finger and thumb to carefully remove each bottle of condiments to drop into the trash with a louder clank. "With Lauren. She was supposed to be your girlfriend."

Hmm. I considered the different angles such a statement might mean—none were good—and lifted to visually gauge where Scott was headed. He winked at me.

Okay, another puzzle. Who knew what the wink meant, but I didn't pursue it either.

"She was never gonna be my girlfriend," I said, leaving it there as I surveyed my work on the kitchen floor. The only area remaining to be cleaned was where the refrigerator stood and the dirty section of tile surrounding it.

"Why's that?" Scott prodded.

Well hell. I furrowed my brow at the question I didn't want to answer. My instincts had me tumbling backward into my old self and clamping my lips shut. The bucket of water I used to scrub the floor was a good enough distraction, allowing me time to figure out a reasonable response. I rolled to my feet, grabbed the bucket's metal handle with my fist and headed for the backyard.

Frustratingly, Scott followed me out with the trash bag in hand. How did he not know I was in the middle of a crisis and needed time? And would he now press the issue for an answer?

He trotted down the few concrete steps to the ground, right on my tail. Fuck, warmth spread from my neck to my face even in the chilly weather. Anxiety built swiftly making me feel preyed upon, and unusually vulnerable. I regretted saying anything about Lauren. My defenses lowered too soon with Scott. Luckily, I went one way to toss the dirty water into the overgrown yard. Scott headed in the other direction toward the trash bins.

The precious seconds of alone time allowed me to pull forward my tried-and-true coping mechanism. A practiced tunnel vision to shut out the rest of the world, leaving only the work on this house, and what was going to happen to my mom as my sole focus. The manic thoughts calmed instantly.

As it turned out, my crappy father passed away without updating his will. The only one in place was the one my mother had convinced him to make years ago. I inherited half of his estate that consisted of two properties, investments, and a lot of money he'd saved. The other half went to my mother. Over the last few weeks, I'd developed another new coping mechanism: Enjoying the fact that my shitty old man was rolling in his grave, fist-fighting angry for leaving such a glaring oversight undone.

His personal checking account held enough money to pay for simple repairs to his two homes. I'd hired a professional lawn care company to come on Monday. I also purchased several large buckets of indoor paint and other supplies. My mom planned to join us Saturday morning to help tackle the enormous job of getting this house together to list next week.

I made a mental list of tasks that still needed attention before the ‘for-sale' sign hit the yard: Paint the walls, deep clean the carpets, and move the beater furniture to the curb to be picked up.

"So, you really gave up football?" Scott startled the shit out of me. I spun around, bowed up, my fist drawn. Too many years of psychological abuse had me unappreciative of being caught off guard.

Scott lifted both hands in surrender. "Whoa, buddy, it's just me."

There was no way Scott missed the fear that accompanied my wild reaction. I quickly glanced away, pretending to be fascinated with the water faucet on the outside brick wall. The constant drip left the ground underneath muddy and mucky. I carefully turned the rusty knob and let the bucket begin to fill without splashing back at me. Yep, I was a professional bucket filler, and quite possibly losing whatever was left of my mind. "I dropped out of college too."

"I'm comin' closer," Scott announced as his work-boot clad feet came into view.

He didn't push me for more of an explanation about quitting football, a yes would have sufficed, but I gave it anyway. "I don't wanna play anymore. Haven't for a long time. And Samford's expensive, I can't afford to be there if I'm not on scholarship."

"Huh," Scott said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I fired off while twisting the squeaky knob. With more attitude than necessary, I gripped the handle of the bucket, sloshing water out as I went for the house.

"I wanna know what happened years ago to bring you back to Alabama," Scott said, again right on my ass. Someone had to teach him about personal space. He needed to back the fuck up and stop all the probing. I'd say whatever I wanted to say. At the base of the steps, I turned toward him, my brows dropping as my stare snapped to his. Why dredge up the past? What did it matter? I'd made it clear from the beginning that I wasn't willing to discuss this topic. I was on the defense now, a comfortable place to be.

"Don't give me that look. I ain't scared of you. You're like a brother to me. And I have a theory about what happened."

"What's that, Einstein?" I shot off sharply then promptly headed back inside, intending to ignore the answer. No doubt chatty back there would follow. My only hope was the slow steady thumping in my chest that sounded like a jackhammer to me, not him.

"I'd rather you tell me," Scott said quietly. I remained silent and began to disinfect the refrigerator, spraying more Clorox over the surfaces than was probably necessary. Of course, the dog with the bone over there wasn't going to let anything go. First, came the scrape of a kitchen chair dragged across the floor. Second, Scott took the seat in the loudest way possible, going so far as to let out a grunt.

"My guess? I figure you're into the wood." Clearly Scott meant to ease into the conversation with humor, but I wasn't there with him.

One second, I felt paralyzed. The next, fire whooshed over the length of my body. Heat crept up my neck into my face. A trickle of sweat ran from my right pit. I somehow forgot how to breathe.

"I decided you got away from here and were finally able to be yourself. Your shitty old man didn't like it and used his influence to bring you back."

Damn. His guess was pretty spot-on.

I placed the Clorox spray bottle on the shelf, before I dropped it and made a bigger mess.

Shame had me lowering my head and closing my eyes. The word deny flashed in bright neon colors behind my lids. "What're your other theories?" I managed to ask in a harsh, rough sound, dropping to one knee in front of the open door, unable to stand on two feet.

"He's gone, bro. I don't think he ever bounced back from your mom leavin'. Nobody goes at the bottle the way he did without harboring a lot of unresolved issues," Scott explained, revealing how closely he'd paid attention. "He was always a drinker but never like what he became. It all happened too fast. I think he took you from your mom to hurt her. You were the collateral damage."

"Then his goals were met," I mumbled. The strong scent of bleach acted like smelling salts, keeping me in the here and now and bringing me back to my feet. The tendrils of humiliation crawled across my skin, prompting a full body shiver.

"You didn't deny it."

Blinding rage replaced my embarrassment. I grabbed the wet sponge, hurling it into the refrigerator with such force it rebounded off the back wall, landing back into the bucket at my feet. Water sloshed everywhere as I pushed the bucket away with the side of my foot. Fortunately, it remained upright as I slammed the refrigerator door shut. "Jeez, man. It's been a hard couple of weeks. Get off me. I'm lookin' forward, not backward."

Adding to my irritation, Scott remained unfazed. Treating my outburst as insignificant. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to tackle an opponent more than right that minute. "Look, you know I'm good with whoever you are on the inside. It doesn't matter to me. What's important is you need to be you, and you need to be happy. I'll be there for you while you figure it out."

Like surfacing headfirst from a torrent of ocean water, the anger ran from me, seeping from every pore. Dash and my mom were the only ones who had truly accepted me. I stared at Scott, feeling overwhelmed by the emotional storm hitting all at once. My chest heaved as I realized I no longer wanted to hide from Scott. The silence between us was deafening.

Scott neither pushed nor retreated. He remained neutral, with no hint of judgment, disgust, or condemnation. The exhaustion of my life had me settling into the seat across from him. Words tumbled from my mouth without thought, something I hadn't done since I left Dash in Sea Springs.

"When my mom and I left, I met a guy in Texas who helped me with my fears. We ran under the radar pretendin' to be friends. He was good to me emotionally, allowed me to be me in every way. We clicked like you and I do, but I was really into him. My dad found out. It was enough to file for an emergency order of custody and you know the rest." My gaze swept to my glove covered hands. "Does anyone else suspect?"

"I've never heard if they did," he said. "Most people think you're stuck up."

I'd heard the refrain many times before, nothing new there. "Don't tell?" Insecurity laced every syllable.

"'Course not," Scott said. I nodded to convey my appreciation as my anxiety twisted my stomach. "So, this is a guy-on-guy thing? You're not into women?"

"No," I admitted. "I've never been. Since I met the guy in Texas, I haven't been attracted to anyone else." I carefully removed the gloves, finger by finger. "I feel deep shame for bein' this way."

"Why?" Scott asked. He'd used that same tone on me many times, the one laced with how off the mark he thought I was. "There's no shame in bein' gay. I have two uncles who are. You know that. You're an awesome dude. Where in Texas is this guy? You need to go see him."

The image of Dash resurfaced vividly. In this memory, he'd just caught his first fish, going wild with excitement. He was breathtaking. A sense of peace enveloped me from the inside out. I no longer had to hide him from everyone, Scott knew.

"No. I can't. I have no way to get there. I've got the cash in my wallet which isn't much. Maybe after the houses sell and the will's processed. I'm givin' my mom my half…"

"Take my truck," Scott interjected, scooting the seat backward to stand. He dug a hand inside the front pocket of his jeans. "I'll stay here with your mom and keep workin'. Be back by Monday, and we'll head back to Mobile together."

My heart clinched at the prospect. The inner spark I'd buried a long time ago reignited, urging me to go. I recognized the value in Scott's idea. It fit with my current efforts of putting the past behind me. I could move forward with my life freely without wonder or regret.

A simple text message would suffice in accomplishing the same goal.

Scott tossed his truck keys on the table between us. Six fifty-dollar bills followed. "Repay me by bein' my best man. I'm gettin' hitched on Wednesday evenin' at my parents' place. What do you say?"

The surprises kept coming. Married with children. The depth of Scott's love showed strongly in his expression. He squared his broad shoulders. He was manning up to his responsibilities.

"Of course, I'll be your best man, and I shouldn't be goin' to Dallas right now. Let me paint the inside of the house, or hell, we can go to Mobile right now," I offered.

Something horrific crossed his face. "No, I told you. All the women are in shower and wedding mode. My mom invited every one of my relatives. They're stayin' in town until after the shindig is over. You and I don't go back until Monday mornin' at the earliest. Tuesday's okay too." His finger circled around the house. "You go to Dallas. I'll handle everything around here until you get back."

Scott's family was a loud and overbearing bunch. We used to sneak off anytime they came to town. A low-level hum of worry built steam inside me. Had Dash really waited for me? For sure, he wouldn't want me once he learned what a loser I'd become. No job, no education, and no real future. The roiling pit of uncertainty in my stomach was back.

Dash didn't have to actually see me. I could ensure he had a good life, and that would be enough.

"You're overthinkin'. You could be in Dallas by eleven tonight if you get goin'. It's a straightforward drive down I-20." As far as Scott was concerned, the topic was closed. He went for the paper towels and began cleaning the spill I'd made.

I wanted to see Dash at least one last time. I went to the bedroom I'd used while in this house, and packed quickly, tossing a couple of pairs of blue jeans and T-shirts in my duffle bag. Socks and underwear followed. Also my dated cell phone and charger.

If luck was on my side, I'd see Dash, learn the truth of his life, and be heading back here by this time tomorrow.