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How could you mention that in front of them?! Didn't I tell you to have this dry cleaned?! I wasn't ready to leave yet! How dare you say that to me?! Who do you think you are?! Who do you think I am?!

It didn't really matter. It was never actually about whatever it was about. It was about my dad drunk off his ass, something bothering him, and my mother or me being there for him to take it out on. It didn't escalate to violence every time. But it wasn't about how often it did, it was the fact that it did, and when it did, it was fucking
bad
.

I watch them interact as the waiter pours them both sparkling water and brings my mother a glass of red wine, presumably her preferred pinot noir. I'm still grasping at the chance of catching him in at least one lie, hoping he'll be served a whiskey and negate his story of sobriety. But he doesn't. He sips his Pellegrino seemingly without a care in the world.

It hits me that this must have been going on for a while. They're clearly not just reconnecting. My mother never talks about him to me, or in front of me, and I was under the impression that they were barely even in contact.  

My father reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear, and parks his hand on the side of her neck, brushing his thumb lazily up and down the outline of her cheek while she talks animatedly about something or other. He watches her intently, seemingly enthralled. There's nothing tentative or hesitant about their interactions. In fact, if they were just two strangers I was observing in a restaurant, I would guess that they were a committed couple, deeply in love. The thought throws me further.

I think about the theater tickets my mother had the night I first called him, and her apparent excitement over what I'd suspected was a date.

The city street spins around me, the world sliding further off of it's axis as I realize that it's likely that I was right about her dating, but clueless about exactly what company she was keeping. That it's possible he's been her date each of the many times she's been out in the city this past year.

I try to think back to when she started being so much more social, spending quite a few Saturday nights at the St. Regis, or so she claimed, so she wouldn't have to drive so late. I think it must have been just under a year ago.

When they start feeding each other bites of their appetizers, I realize I need to get the fuck out of there. Next they'll be slurping the same spaghetti like Lady and The fucking Tramp.

I make my way across Fifth Avenue and enter Central Park. Conversation buzzes around me, faceless masses all going about their business like it's just another day, completely oblivious to the alternate universe I somehow stepped into on my walk to my father's office this morning.

My head spins and my pulse races, and I pick up my pace on my way to nowhere. The image of my parents staring at each other like teenagers in love shoots around my brain like one of those super bouncy balls—the ones that never seem to stop, that only bounce faster and harder with each hard surface they come into contact with.

Apparently my mother has forgiven my father for years of abuse. Did she buy his sobriety story? Does love really forgive all? I can't understand it. I can't understand why she would give him another chance after the hundreds of chances he's already had and forsaken, after all of the promises made and broken.

And him! How was Mitch able to sit across from me for two fucking hours, even talking about how he never stopped loving my mom, and pretend as if everything was normal? They're supposed to be divorced—living separate lives. How was he able to give me that speech about real love versus puppy love and how he knows how much I have to lose, when he hasn't actually lost anything at all? He may not be living in her house, but he obviously has her where he wants her.

I find myself at one of my favorite spots—one I often sought out when I was in the city as a child. I've always loved The Balto statue along East Drive, right by Sixty Seventh Street. My Grandma Lena went on a cruise to Alaska with my Grandpa Alex before he died, and brought back all kinds of souvenirs, including a children's book about the heroic sled dog, and at six years old, I was hooked. I begged my parents for months to get a Siberian Husky, but my father wouldn't let us consider any breeds that shed their fur.

I feel an unsettling wave of nostalgia as I look at the massive animal, mostly slate gray with bronze still highlighting much of its coat and tail, and I sit back against one of the great natural stones making up its base.

I woke up this morning feeling like an adult—a man. Now I don't know what I am, don't know who I am, don't even know what goddamned planet this is I'm on. Balto is the only evidence that this world is the same one I knew as a child.

But it isn't.

This world has one less drunken bastard, apparently cured by a twelve step program and forgiven by the woman he hurt the most. In his place is someone else, someone I want to judge and reject, but know I can't, because I don't even know him. And the only things I do know are that he's helping me with Rory, and that my mother seems to be a fan. But knowing what I can't do doesn't help me figure out what I
should
do.

I don't know what to fucking
think
.

Fuck
, what if he tells my mother I was his last client? What if he tells her what I told him about Rory? About what went down in that goddamned alley?

But he said anything I told him would be privileged. And to trust him as a professional. Well, I guess this is a good way to find out if he's actually worthy of that trust. Better to test it with my ass than Rory's. Because if he tells my mother what I did, what I said… my ass is fucking toast. I mean, I'm eighteen, so it's not like she can take away my car or anything, but she learned quite a bit from her mother-in-law in Jewish guilt, and it's goddamn brutal.

My mother would be so
disappointed
, so
worried
, and she would have me promising to see Dr. Schall about it. She'd try to make me promise not to do anything
reckless
, to be
careful
. And I won't be able to do it. I
am
trying to do it her way, my father's way, but if for some reason it doesn't work out… I'm prepared to do whatever I need to keep Rory safe.

But the last thing I want is for my mother to hear what happened that night—the violence I meted out, the promise I made. Rory doesn't even know. Only me, Tucker, and
that motherfucking bastard
know what I did, what I said, and not one of us told the truth in our statements to the police. But I just recounted it detail for detail for my father, not that I could forget a moment of it if I tried.

"Please just stay here with Carl. Okay, baby?
Please
."

Rory nods uncertainly and it takes everything I have not to grab her and hold her tight, to keep her wrapped in my arms, where I can know she is safe. The image that assaulted me when I entered the alley behind me shoots through my mind, bouncing off of every surface, picking up velocity until it's all I can see, all I can think of. And it galvanizes me.

I turn, trusting Carl beyond measure, and stalk back to where I left Tuck guarding Rory's predator—my prey. I feel the strain of the clench of my jaw, the grit of my teeth, the flex of every muscle in my body as fury vibrates through every part of me, trapped and searching for release.

My gaze lands purposefully on the target of my rage, and I feel a subtle calm. Because yes, the purpose is to punish the motherfucking bastard who tortured my girl, to make sure he never so much as thinks about coming anywhere near her again…

But I am going to enjoy this.

I feel a buzz of excitement flowing from my gut into my limbs, charging me with renewed energy as I approach to find Tuck slamming his foot into the bastard's ribs, and I allow him to get one more in before I stop him.

"Tucker." My voice is low and in control. Very unlike the version of me who has gotten into physical altercations in the past.

Tucker steps back, watching me warily. He's nervous, presumably worried about what I might do, but he doesn't say a word. He knows he can't stop me.

I wait for the piece of garbage on the ground to make eye contact.

"Get up," I order.

"Cap," Tucker warns, but I barely even hear him.

The bastard spits on the ground beside him, but doesn't get up.

"Get. The fuck. Up."

He wipes the blood and spit from his mouth, and slowly, with an effort that satisfies something deep in my belly, makes his way first to his elbows, and then to his knees, until he's staggering to his feet.

He spits again, saliva tinged pink with blood, and then he makes the mistake of speaking. "She ain't who you think—"

I deck him in the jaw, throwing all of my weight into it until I release so much force I nearly topple over myself. The motherfucking bastard flies backward into the brick wall, his head wobbling beautifully, and he slides back down to the ground.

"Again," I demand, but he doesn't obey. His eyes blink open and try to focus, but I'm losing my grip on my patience. "Again!" I shout. "Get up!"

"Fuck!" he whines. "You don't… even know her…" He plants one foot on the ground. "The fuckin' bitch—"

As soon as he shifts his weight to try and get up, I strike again, hammering my fists into the sides of his face in quick succession. This time, I go down with him, pinning him to the cold concrete with my weight, knowing he won't be getting up again.

He makes a pathetic attempt to fight back, his limbs barely twitching with all of his exertion, and I let out a low, sinister chuckle at his efforts.

I grab him by his hair and slam his head into the pavement, but only once, though every cell in my arm aches to do it again, and again, until he no longer exists. Until I know with a blessed certainty that he can never threaten Rory ever again.

But I am not myself. I am not the
Cap
with anger and impulse control issues. I am in full control, calculating my every move, and I'm painfully aware that I can't kill this motherfucker right now in this alley, not with all of these people around and Rory barely fifty feet away.

And I need him conscious. I need to get my message across. Because it's the last one I'll deliver him. He'll either heed it or he won't, and if he doesn't, the next time I'll make sure he doesn't walk away breathing, no matter what the consequences.

"Hey," I say, slapping his cheeks to keep his attention. "Stay with me,
tough guy
, I'm not done yet."

I wait for his gaze to clear, and then I hit him again, immensely enjoying the way his head snaps sideways, twisting in an almost impossible angle until I shove it back to face me.

"Look at me," I growl, slapping him again, needing his focus.

I know it won't take much more before he's completely knocked out, so I shift my attention lower, landing solid shots to his stomach and sides, relishing his agonized grunts, the feel of my fists pounding into his kidneys. I savor the deep whoosh of air leaving his body as I pound his diaphragm, the gratifying sounds of his desperate wheezing.

I give him a moment as he gasps for breath, allowing him enough air to stay cognizant of what I'm about to explain. Because how seriously he takes my words can be the difference between life and death. And not Rory's,
his
.

I watch him carefully as he blinks into some semblance of focus.

"Cap…" Tucker warns. He's anxious. I can only imagine the look in my eyes in this moment, and it must be fucking murderous.

But I ignore my best friend, and am only even vaguely aware of him in my peripheral, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Cap—"

I hold up one hand to stifle him without breaking my gaze from the piece of shit lying bloody on the ground beneath me, and then redirect that hand to his throat. I exert enough pressure to restrict his airway, giving him only the smallest taste of what he put Rory through, and as much as my fingers ache to tighten and end him, I forcibly restrain myself.

"I should kill you." I keep my voice calm and clear, trying to compensate for the fact that he's obviously fighting to stay conscious. "You
know
I should kill you. You know it's what you deserve. After everything you did to Rory, you disgusting, pathetic piece of fucking shit." I take a moment to re-gather my control before I start gnashing my teeth at him. "But despite the fact that you fucking deserve it, and that I'm fucking itching to do it…"

My hand twitches like a fucking addict hurting for a fix. If I just squeeze a little harder, or deliver just a couple more good hits, I can make sure he can never hurt Rory again—I can punish him for ever hurting her at all. I can rid this world of the worst fucking kind of monster.

But I wont.

"Instead, I'm going to do what I know
she
would tell me to do. I'm going to make the choice I know she'd want me to, even though you just beat and tried to fucking violate her,
again,"
I growl.

And I am. Because Rory taught me in one afternoon what Dr. Schall couldn't quite get through to me for years. I have a choice to do things better. To
be
better. And though I know the violence I've doled out tonight wasn't solely to get my point across—that it gave me a kind of satisfaction that makes me a complete hypocrite, it's not even close to what I want to do. And that—that self-restraint, the difference between what I've done and what I want to do—is all Rory. Even though she is out of sight, safe under the watch of my friends, I feel her right beside me, whispering in my ear and holding me back.