Routine.
Posted: Mon Sep 24, 2018 5:19 am
((Matthew Wilde continued from Enemy of the State))
It'd become a fixture of the last year.
Every Saturday, 2:00 P.M. sharp. Coffee. He'd order a Cuban, two creams, shot of caramel.
Garrett would order a hot chocolate, whipped cream, sprinkle of nutmeg.
They'd sit, sometimes wearing newly acquired suits, sometimes empty-handed, but always with their laptops on the table, idly editing their respective work and firing away question after wry comment after frustration after backhanded compliment.
It worked. It was comfortable.
He never stopped going. Every Saturday for the last month, he sat at the least wobbly table available, sipped his Cuban, and waited. He waited for a phone call from Linda, or his contact in the Coast Guard, or the police. He waited for a news alert to interrupt the blaring broadcast droning on above his head about a recovered black box, or a promising scrap of wreckage, or an unexpected survivor.
He waited for his son to come strolling through the door with a new suit on his back, his old laptop in his hands, and that same, familiar half-smile on his face. They'd exchange apologies and reassurances, brief and professional. Shake hands, and resume like they hadn't missed a beat.
That was the fantasy.
The first Saturday he missed came immediately after the footage was released. Afterwards, his habits adjusted to his new situation. Each trip found him in a deserted corner, out of the way and out of view. He no longer kept his phone on. He no longer waited. Instead, his eyes idly flicked through footage of his son's last few days. Randomly chosen snippets with no direction, he told himself, but he always ended up in one of two places.
He always ended up watching Garrett kill, and watching Garrett die.
Weeks in, he was beyond rationalization. There were no more answers to search for, no hidden truths waiting in dissection. He didn't ask why. He didn't beg for him to get up. At this point, he didn't even cry.
He simply spent Saturday afternoon with his son, like he had for months before.
Like he would for months to come.
It'd become a fixture of the last year.
Every Saturday, 2:00 P.M. sharp. Coffee. He'd order a Cuban, two creams, shot of caramel.
Garrett would order a hot chocolate, whipped cream, sprinkle of nutmeg.
They'd sit, sometimes wearing newly acquired suits, sometimes empty-handed, but always with their laptops on the table, idly editing their respective work and firing away question after wry comment after frustration after backhanded compliment.
It worked. It was comfortable.
He never stopped going. Every Saturday for the last month, he sat at the least wobbly table available, sipped his Cuban, and waited. He waited for a phone call from Linda, or his contact in the Coast Guard, or the police. He waited for a news alert to interrupt the blaring broadcast droning on above his head about a recovered black box, or a promising scrap of wreckage, or an unexpected survivor.
He waited for his son to come strolling through the door with a new suit on his back, his old laptop in his hands, and that same, familiar half-smile on his face. They'd exchange apologies and reassurances, brief and professional. Shake hands, and resume like they hadn't missed a beat.
That was the fantasy.
The first Saturday he missed came immediately after the footage was released. Afterwards, his habits adjusted to his new situation. Each trip found him in a deserted corner, out of the way and out of view. He no longer kept his phone on. He no longer waited. Instead, his eyes idly flicked through footage of his son's last few days. Randomly chosen snippets with no direction, he told himself, but he always ended up in one of two places.
He always ended up watching Garrett kill, and watching Garrett die.
Weeks in, he was beyond rationalization. There were no more answers to search for, no hidden truths waiting in dissection. He didn't ask why. He didn't beg for him to get up. At this point, he didn't even cry.
He simply spent Saturday afternoon with his son, like he had for months before.
Like he would for months to come.