Free Fitz by Mick Cochrane

alliance, reached an understanding, and the basis of it, the core principle, is that he, Fitz, needs more of what he loves. He feels himself blushing. He’s not really used to being the center of attention, not like this.
    A second piece of pie, in a restaurant—it just never even occurred to Fitz as a possibility. It violates some iron law, some rule so fundamental and obvious and universally accepted that it never needs to be spelled out:
each diner may order one, and only one, dessert
. But today that rule doesn’t apply. Today, all bets are off.
    In just a couple of minutes, Maddie is back with another piece of pie, more ice cream. “Okay, champ,” she says. “Dig in.”
    Fitz looks at his father. “You heard her,” his father says.
    It seems to Fitz now, at this moment, with his father and a pretty girl smiling at him, a gorgeous piece of apple pie in front of him, that no matter what happens to him afterward, even if he is arrested, cuffed, expelled, no matter what punishment he suffers for his crazy stunt today, no matter what, it will have been worth it.
    His father has his fork in hand. He’s doing some excavating and rearranging on his plate, but mainly he’s watching Fitz. It looks like he’s enjoying Fitz’s enjoyment, feeling his pie pleasure once removed.
    Before he starts in on his pie, he wants to tell his father something. “Fitz,” he says. “That’s what they call me.”

19
    Fitz reaches across the table and picks up the check that Maddie left in front of his father. He calculates what would be a generous tip and pulls his father’s wallet from his hip pocket.
    He almost feels as if he should keep it hidden from his father. It’s wrong that he has it. Fitz knows that. It’s a reminder, pie or no pie, of how things stand between them.
    A wallet is personal, intimate even, and Fitz tries to respect that. There’s some credit cards in there, maybe some photographs, who knows what else, but he doesn’t look. He extracts a few bills as dispassionately as he can. For his part, his father doesn’t betray any emotion. He doesn’t look pained or outraged or violated in any way. His expression is completely neutral. Fitz wonders how you do that, imagines it must be a lawyer thing.
    Fitz drops the bills on the table. It feels good. To have the dough. To know there’s more where that came from. It’s not like when he and Caleb go out for French fries and Dr Peppers with their pockets full of change, worrying that the sales tax is going to bust them.
    Maybe this is what it feels like to be Dad. The man with the wallet. At the same time, he’s worrying about where he’s taking this show next. He’s feeling the weight of being in charge. Maybe that’s part of the dad equation, too. He’s picking up the tabs and calling the shots. He’s the man. He can see how you might love it, and also how you might get tired of it.
    He thinks about asking his father,
is that what it feels like?
But really, how would he know? He’s the wrong guy to ask.

20
    Fitz excuses himself and hits the restroom. The men’s is down a long hallway in the far back of the restaurant, marked by a Ken doll stuck on the door, which Fitz thinks is a nice touch. Ken is shirtless, displaying impressive plastic pecs, sporting plaid shorts and sandals.
    While he’s washing his hands, Fitz imagines that they might become regulars here, he and his father. Maddie would remember him, the apple pie boy. They might strike up a little friendship. Why not? He looks in the mirror and fluffs his hair a little. Anything is possible.
    When Fitz comes back out, their booth is empty. There’s a guy in an apron loading their dishes into a big plastic tub. He can see the ravaged, smashed remnants of his father’s pie. His father is nowhere to be seen.
    Fitz feels a flutter of panic in his gut. All his stuff is in the car. The gun is in the car. He has his father’s wallet and phone but he let him keep his car keys. How could he be so