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Gerry Munson isn't a terrible person. Shit, life would probably be a lot easier if he were, terrible as that sounds. He's not the best man in the world. He's made a lot of mistakes in his life, and a lot of them have been made with Eddie. But he loved his wife, and he loves his kid. That's something Eddie has never doubted.
Yeah, sure, he makes comments sometimes about dear ol' dad, but…
Look, he knows why Gerry did it. Why he started leaving Eddie with Wayne more and more after Eddie's momma, Emma, died. Why he walked straight into a situation he knew he didn't have his head wrapped around completely, and knew could end with him in jail. Why he taught his ten year old son all the inner workings of a car. He did it for Eddie. It was so he could have food in his belly on the regular. So Gerry wouldn't have to wonder if the heat in their rinky-dink Indianapolis apartment was going to turn off in the middle of the night during a terrible Midwestern winter and freeze his boy to death. So if, God forbid, one day Eddie was left with nothing, he'd have his hands and the work—legal or no—that they could do.
And it's not like Wayne hasn't taught him similar things, right?
Things like, "it's better to have something like jewelry that you can pawn than just straight up cash hidden away," or "this is how you talk yourself out of a fight, and if you can't, this is how you throw from the shoulder." It's survival skills.
Yeah, Eddie wishes he didn't have to know those things. He wishes that he hadn't spent the last almost-decade only seeing his dad face to face a couple times a year and mostly talking over letters. That's a normal thing to want. To be a little bitter about. He knows his old man and Wayne both want the same thing for him. You're supposed to want a better life for your kid.
Which is why Eddie doesn't tell either of them when Rick asks if he wants to start selling a little product.
He knows exactly how both of them would react. Wayne would get all quiet, and sad, and let out that little huff that said he was disappointed in the world in general, not Eddie specifically. Gerry would be more understanding. Still sad. Worried, even. But he'd get it, the burning desire to do whatever he can to help his family out. He comes by it honestly, from Gerry, and Emma, and Wayne, all.
The one little thing he didn't remember when he said yes to Rick, the one that throws the whole scheme down the shitter... That he only got from Emma: a brain that plans faster than it can think.
It's all well and good to brace yourself and follow in your dad's footsteps in the name of family. (Albeit in a safer way.) But you can't do that and not tell family . He'd gotta have some explanation for why he can suddenly help Wayne out with the bills, and just saying "I picked up an after school job" isn't gonna cut it.
Which leads to this: Eddie, sitting on the beat-up couch on their porch, gnawing the sides of his thumbs bloody. An envelope with money is tucked into his inside jacket pocket. It feels like a lead weight that is dragging him deeper and deeper into the earth. He resolutely watches dawn's first rays spread across the sky and not the road leading to the trailer. Not even when he hears Wayne's car drive up. Or when he feels the couch dip beneath his uncle's weight as he sits beside Eddie with a long, tired sigh.
Years of knowing each other lets them skip the beginning of the conversation. Wayne doesn't need to ask if Eddie wants to tell him something. Eddie doesn't need to tell him that he doesn't know how to say it. And he knows that Wayne's not gonna judge him too bad, no matter how twisted it ends up pouring out of his mouth when he can't take the silence anymore.
"I did something stupid," he says finally. "But not as stupid as I could've done."
Wayne snorts. "Well, that's something."
Eddie hands over the crinkled, white envelope. Can't stand to look Wayne's way as he opens the flap and peers in at the collection of small bills. "Rick says hi. And he can teach me to make that cream you like to use when your hands get sore."
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Wayne rub at his forehead the way he always does when Eddie makes a not-so-great decision. "I think I can guess at most of it, but you wanna tell me the rest of how this isn't as stupid as it could've been?" he asks, reaching over to gently pull Eddie's ripped up fingers away from his mouth.
Eddie bites at his lower lip instead, but this time it's around a crooked grin instead of anxiety. "It'll be better on both of them if Hop can get his weed from someone other than Rick. Not exactly plausible deniability, but..."
Wayne snorts. Shakes his head in fond exasperation. The silence that falls is significantly more comfortable than it was a minute ago. Even after he heaves another sigh, this one more tired than the last.
"I never wanted you to feel like you had to do something like this."
There's no helping the full-body flinch Eddie gives at that. "I know."
"Sometimes I wish your heart wasn't as big as it is," Wayne says quietly.
That's what finally gets Eddie to look at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open just a bit. "Wh—?"
His uncle places a large, warm hand on the top of his head. "Don't get me wrong, Ed," he says, fondness shining out of his every pore as he smiles. "I don't want you to go changing yourself or anything like that. But you and I both know how terrible the world can be. It'd be a little easier on you if you didn't feel everything so keenly and for everyone else."
Eddie ducks his head a bit. Thinks it over. He gets what Wayne's saying. Really, he does. It's survival, the same way everything else a little twisted and true both his father figures have taught him. But even so—"Sounds like a good reason to stay that way. Bring a little more light into this dark shithole."
The hand on his head drops to his shoulder, and Wayne pulls Eddie in until he's leaning his full weight against his uncle, head resting on his chest like he's seven again, not seventeen. "I knew letting you read those all those hopeful fantasy books when you were a kid was a terrible idea," he says.
"Hey, The Lord of the Rings is just as much about the real consequences of war as it is hope in dark times," he says, hiding a smile in Wayne's flannel.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, kid."
They stay there for a long moment, watching as the last of the sun comes up over the horizon.
"Rick knows that if you want out, you're out, right?" Wayne asks quietly.
Eddie nods. "Yeah. Think he's more scared of you and your disappointed look than he is the cops, honestly."
He doesn't need to look up to know Wayne is smiling. "As it should be." The hand he still has on Eddie's shoulder pats him a couple times. "C'mon, son. Let's get inside. I need some breakfast, and you need to make me some eggs."
It's not the end of the conversation, Eddie knows. For now, yeah. But not forever. In a couple days, or weeks, or maybe even a month, he knows Wayne is gonna sit him down and ask him about it again. How it's going. If he's sure he wants to keep at it. If there's anything he wants to talk to his old man about that they can't send in a letter to the state penitentiary. Eddie's not sure if the tangled mess of feelings about doing this he's been resolutely ignoring will have shoved their way into the front of his brain by then, but either way, he knows Wayne will be there to listen when he needs to talk it through.
That's what family does.