Greg looked at him.
“You taught me how to change oil,” Nathan said. “And fix a carburetor. And play guitar. And poker. You taught me how to make a fishing lure out of a bottle cap. You told me about the war. About the guys you served with. About Sergeant Hollis.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of the jacket. “You told me you used to sing to me every night. Friends in Low Places. You said you were terrible.”
“I was terrible,” Greg said.
“You still are,” Nathan said. “You sang it to me in the motel. Two weeks ago. You were terrible.”
Greg laughed. It turned into a cough. A bad one. I reached for the cup of water on the table. I held the straw to his lips. He drank.
When he could breathe again, he looked at Nathan.
Ezoic
“I’m sorry, Nate,” he said. “For all of it. For the kitchen. For the curb. For ten years.”
