19. Creed

CHAPTER 19

CREED

The fast-food joint was one of those places that stayed open all night, catering to the late-shift crowd and the down-and-out. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, washed-out glow. The smell of grease clung to the air. I ordered the cheapest burger on the menu, adding a coffee to keep myself warm for a while longer. I slid into a corner booth, unwrapping the burger, the paper crinkling under my fingers.

As I took my first bite, the door swung open, bringing a gust of cold air with it. A figure shuffled inside, pausing to brush the snow from his jacket. I almost choked when I recognized him—Warren, one of my father's old poker buddies. His face was more lined than I remembered, his hair more gray than brown now. He squinted in my direction before his eyes widened in recognition.

"Well, I'll be damned," Warren muttered as he shuffled over to my booth. "Creed, that you?" At my nod, he clapped me on the shoulder, his grip as rough as ever. His breath smelled like cheap whiskey, the scent mingling with the stale fries between us.

I forced a smile, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "Long time."

He slid into the seat across from me without asking, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Hell, last time I saw you, you were barely out of high school. What's it been, seven, eight years?"

"Something like that." I took another bite of the burger, using it as an excuse to avoid his gaze. The memories of those poker nights came flooding back—me trying to study in the next room while my father and his buddies got loud, the clink of glass bottles echoing through our home.

Warren's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping. "Heard you went into the Marines. Your old man couldn't stop bragging about it. ‘My boy's a real man now,' he used to say. "Are you in between deployments, or are you stationed around here?"

My chest tightened. I focused on the coffee cup in front of me, swirling the dark liquid around. "Things didn't work out."

It was a lie, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth—that I'd been dishonorably discharged, that if my father lived to find out, he would have considered me more of a failure than he already had. Warren watched me, his expression unreadable, before he leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his belly.

"You working anywhere now?"

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice casual. "Not at the moment."

His eyebrows shot up. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, glancing toward the counter as if he could see something more interesting than me over there. "Well, might be your lucky day. The construction company where I work is looking for a few good hands, just an apprenticeship thing, but it pays better than nothing. They're offering on-the-job training, too. All you need is your high school diploma."

Hope flickered in my chest. "Where's this place at?"

Warren gave me the location. "Show up early tomorrow with your paperwork. Tell 'em I sent you. They're desperate enough, they might take you."

I forced a smile onto my face. "Thanks, Warren. I appreciate it."

He waved it off with a dismissive grunt, but there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes, a trace of the man who'd been a friend to my dad back before the booze and bad luck had ruined everything. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, but my mind was already elsewhere, turning over the possibility of a steady job, the faint hope that maybe things might finally be turning around.

The next morning, I stood outside the building Warren had directed me to, clutching my high school diploma. The sun hadn't risen yet, the sky a muted gray that matched the concrete walls around me. My breath fogged in the cold air as I waited, shifting on my feet to keep warm.

When the manager finally unlocked the door, he looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my worn coat and the rough edges I couldn't hide. He barked a few questions—had I done manual labor before, could I lift fifty pounds without breaking my back—and barely glanced at the diploma.

The interview was over before I had time to second-guess my answers. He handed me a pair of gloves and told me to start the next day. I'd never had an interview end so quickly, with so little scrutiny. No sideways glances at my address, no awkward silences when I couldn't explain the gap in my employment history. Just work, plain and simple.

My first day on the job was a blur of noise and sweat. They put me to work in the loading bay, hauling crates and unloading deliveries, my muscles burning with the unfamiliar strain. It wasn't glamorous, but I'd done worse. The hum of forklifts filled the air, mingling with the shouts of my new coworkers. Most of them were older, with the rough, worn faces of men who'd been doing this kind of work their whole lives.

During our first break, I sat on the edge of a splintered bench, unwrapping a sandwich I'd packed. The other guys gathered nearby, talking loudly, their voices carrying over the rumble of machinery.

One of them, a wiry guy with a thick mustache named Pete, nudged his friend and grinned. "Did you see the new waitress at the diner this morning? God, she's got legs for days."

His buddy, a burly guy named Tom with a beer gut that stretched his uniform shirt, let out a low whistle. "Yeah, I wouldn't mind a piece of that."

They laughed, and I tried to focus on my sandwich, but I could feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to join in. Pete elbowed Tom in the ribs as if they were conspiring, his grin widening. "Hey, Creed, you're awfully quiet over there. What, a guy like you doesn't notice a pretty girl when he sees one?"

I forced a smile, swallowing down the discomfort that twisted in my gut. "Yeah, sure."

Pete smirked, turning back to his friends, satisfied with my answer. I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my expression neutral. My father's voice rang in my ears, mocking, accusing. You think I don't see how you look at those boys at school? Think I'm blind?

I remembered the night he'd cornered me in the garage, his breath reeking of whiskey, his face flushed with anger. He'd grabbed my collar, shoving me against the wall so hard my head snapped back. You're a goddamn faggot, aren't you? Just like those queers you hang around with. He'd sneered, his spit hitting my cheek as I struggled to hold back the tears. You think you'll find a place in this world, acting like that?

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut and I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present. The guys were still talking, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. I nodded along, pretending to listen, all the while wishing I could be somewhere else. Wishing I could be back in Avery's arms, feeling the warmth of his breath against my skin, the gentle way he'd held me, like he was afraid I might break.

I remembered the way he'd looked at me that last night, his eyes dark with something I couldn't name. I'd let myself melt into him, into his kisses, his touch, feeling things I'd tried to bury for so long. Avery had made me feel seen, even if it was just for a weekend. And now, surrounded by the crude jokes and knowing smirks of these men, I felt more invisible than ever.

The break ended, and I got up with the rest of them, pulling on my gloves and forcing myself to focus on the work in front of me. But the memory of Avery lingered, a quiet ache beneath my ribs, reminding me of a world I'd glimpsed. A world where maybe, for just a little while, I felt like I could be something more than what my father always told me I'd become.