Free Fragile by Lisa Unger Page A

ago,this judge who looked so imposing now in his big black robe had slept on their couch, too drunk to drive home after a poker game. “Why would you want that?”
    “Because he’s my dad.”
    It was all Marshall could think to say. There was something deep within him that clung, held on tight. Even when he hated his father—and sometimes he really, really did—there was still a part of him that waited like a puppy for a bone. Anything—a smile, a pat on the shoulder. Anything.
    Now he heard his father hammering in the basement. He flipped on the fluorescent light in the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator. There were some dishes in the sink; the garbage was starting to smell. In the fridge, a six-pack of Miller Lite and the leftover Chinese takeout from last night sat lonely and uninviting. He let the door swing closed, then reluctantly walked down the hall and descended the stairs to the basement.
    “You’re late,” his father said. Marshall sank onto the bottom step, wrapped his arms around his shins.
    “Sorry.”
    His father didn’t look up from what he was doing. “Where were you?”
    Marshall didn’t answer. Travis let the hammer drop and turned his gaze on his son. Something about the look on his father’s face, and the hammer in his hand, made Marshall’s heart beat fast, his throat go dry.
    “I told you to stop going there,” Travis said.
    “I told her,” said Marshall quickly. “I told her I didn’t want her in my head anymore.”
    Even saying it now, remembering how she’d looked at him, he felt sick. He didn’t tell his father how he’d hung around her house for hours, almost went to see her to apologize, then ran off when she came out and spotted him, too afraid, ashamed, confused to say what he wanted to say. All the words and emotions jammed up in his throat and his chest. All he could think to do was run.
    Travis gave his son a nasty smile. “And what did she say to that?”
    “She said it was my choice to come or not.”
    “Damn right it is,” said Travis. He went back to his hammering, a slow lift and a heavy drop.
    He was building shelves for his office. His father had a talent for things like that. The walls were painted, the new carpet laid. The office was starting to look good. They’d put together his desk, bought a computer on credit. They’d had a phone line installed and ordered a plaque: TRAVIS CROSBY INVESTIGATIONS . He was proud that he’d helped his father, even if Dr. Cooper didn’t seem overly impressed. What did she know?
    “So where were you all this time?”
    “I went to see this girl I know.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Travis looked up at him, a crooked smile on his face. There was a shade of shared mischief there, the slightest hint of approval.
    “And?”
    “And we hung out. I took her for a ride in the car. She had to go home; she’s got a strict mother.”
    “Is she a slut or a good girl?”
    Marshall let out a little laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he said. He felt the heat rise to his face.
    Travis gave him a look. “That was a trick question, Son. They’re all sluts.”
    Now it was Travis’s turn to laugh; it sounded more like a cough. Marshall looked down at the toes of his combat boots, which he’d bought from the army-navy shop in town. He had that feeling he always had with his father, like he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. No matter what answer he gave, it always seemed to be the wrong one.
    “At least you’re seeing a girl in the flesh instead of living your life on that box upstairs.” His father meant the computer. Why he insisted on calling it a box, as if he didn’t know what it was or what it did, was beyond Marshall. His dad wasn’t that old.
    “I didn’t hear you complaining when we hacked into Mom’s Facebook account,” said Marshall. He brought this up as often as possible because it always made his father smile.
    Predictably, Travis let out a laugh at the memory. “That was pretty cool. Did she