Anything For Eve

Chapter 7

Reese

The morning had already taken a weird turn when Uncle Pete knocked on my door, his voice cutting through the usual morning silence. "Breakfast's ready, and you're gonna be late," he called out, a note of urgency in his tone that didn't sit right. It was odd, him worrying about my schedule. The shop was always bustling by now, and Pete was too wrapped up in his own stuff to care much about my comings and goings.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I took a quick shower and pulled on my uniform, my mind still half-stuck in the haze of last night's restless sleep. Whatever Pete wanted, it had to be important, or he wouldn't bother. I trudged downstairs, following the familiar path to the backroom where we sometimes managed to catch a quick meal together if the day allowed.

The small room was dimly lit, the smell of strong coffee mingling with the scent of burnt toast—an aroma that was becoming too familiar these days. Pete sat at the old, scarred table, his breakfast untouched, his expression unreadable. That alone spiked a tension in the air; meals were usually a silent affair, but today the silence felt heavy, loaded.

I slid into the chair across from him, eyeing the plate but not feeling much of an appetite. We ate—or rather, pushed our food around the plates—in a terse silence that seemed to suck the air out of the room. I was ready to get out, escape whatever was brewing, but just as I was about to stand, Pete's voice stopped me.

"Reese." There was a seriousness to his tone that made me pause, my hand on the back of the chair.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope, worn at the edges as though it had been handled more than a few times. He slid it across the table toward me with a steady hand, his eyes not quite meeting mine. "This is for you," he said, his voice low.

The weight of the envelope in my hand felt like a block of ice, chilling and unwanted. I stared down at it, a rush of anger and frustration boiling up inside me. Part of me wanted to rip it to shreds, to throw it in Pete's face and tell him where he could shove his and his father's guilt money.

Uncle Pete watched me closely, his expression unreadable. He exhaled a heavy sigh, the weight of years settling on his shoulders as he spoke. "Call him, Reese. Thank him for the check," he said, his voice more tired than commanding.

I scoffed, my response cold and edged with bitterness. "Like he'd even pick up. The man wouldn't know a son's voice if it hit him."

Pete's gaze hardened, his patience thinning. "Call him either way, Reese. It's the least you can do," he insisted, pushing the point more firmly than usual.

I shot back a non-committal grunt, my eyes fixed on the crinkled paper between my fingers. We both knew I wouldn't make that call. I'd never tried to contact my father—not once since he'd walked out and decided that a check here and there was enough to cover his absence. I wasn't about to start now, not for him, not for anyone.

Pete's insistence hung heavy in the air, a challenge I wasn't willing to accept. "Pete, I'm not calling him," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Not now, not ever. He doesn't get to buy my forgiveness."

Uncle Pete's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of something fleeting and unreadable flickering through them. He didn't push further, perhaps understanding that some lines weren't meant to be crossed, or maybe realizing that some wounds were too deep to be healed by a mere phone call.

I shoved the envelope into my backpack, its presence a heavy reminder of the complicated ties that bound me to a man I no longer considered my father.

For a brief second, before he leaves to finally open the shop, Uncle Pete's gaze drops to my knuckles. The cuts and bruises, barely faded, mark the evidence of recent fights—fights I don't care to explain, least of all to him.