Page 142 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

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RHETT

The drive upstate was quiet. It was the kind of comfortable silence that only comes when two people are truly at ease with each other. Clem sat in the passenger seat of my car, her hand resting on my thigh, occasionally squeezing when she sensed my tension building as we got closer to our destination. I rarely drove except when I made the visits upstate, which was almost never.

“You okay?” Clem asked as I took the exit that would lead us to the correctional facility.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just, I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing you here.”

“You were thinking that you didn’t want to do this alone,” she said gently. “And I’m glad you’re letting me come along.”

I pulled into the visitors’ parking lot and sat for a moment, staring at the imposing concrete structure ahead of us. Gray walls, razor wire, and guard towers weren’t exactly romantic.

“This isn’t the kind of place you bring the woman you love,” I said, shaking my head.

Clem unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face me fully. “Rhett, look at me.”

I did and saw there wasn’t a trace of judgment.

“Your father is part of your story,” she said. “The good parts and the complicated parts. I want to know all of you, remember? That includes this.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “I just never imagined doing this. Bringing someone here to meet him. Hell, I barely come here myself.”

“How long has it been since your last visit?”

“Too long,” I admitted. “Six months, maybe seven. I keep telling myself I’ll go next week, next month, but then…” I shrugged. “Time passes. Things get busy.”

She squeezed my hand. “Well, you’re here now. We’re here now.”

The check-in process was as humiliating as I remembered. Metal detectors, pat-downs, forms to fill out, stern-faced guards who looked at us like we were probably criminals ourselves. Clem handled it all with grace, following the rules without complaint, even when one particularly surly guard made her remove her jewelry and put it in a locker.

“First time?” the guard asked her with a knowing smirk.

“Yes,” she said simply, not rising to the bait.

When we were finally cleared and escorted to the visitation room, I felt like I might throw up. The familiar smell hit me first. It was something distinctly institutional.

“Shit,” I muttered when the reality sank in.

“Hey,” Clem whispered, slipping her hand into mine. “It’s okay.”

We took our seats at one of the small round tables. Would he be angry that I’d brought someone? Would he be angry that I stayed away so long?

Then the door opened and inmates began filing in, and there he was.

He looked older than his sixty-two years, his dark hair now more gray than black, his face lined in ways that spoke of hard living and harder choices. But he was still my father, still had those same green eyes I saw in the mirror every morning. He still carried himself with that particular combination of swagger and wariness that had defined my childhood.

His eyes found mine across the room, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. Then his gaze shifted to Clem, and I saw surprise flicker across his features.

“Son,” he said as he approached our table.

“Dad.” I stood awkwardly.

“Good to see you, boy,” he said as he sat down. “You look good. Healthy.”

“Thanks. You too.” It wasn’t entirely true, but what else was I supposed to say?

He turned to Clem then.