And the past few days of not fucking with him? Those have been the worst. I figure Mom and Dad will just leave me alone, especially after my outburst last time, but Dad slips away from them and makes his way over.
“Scott, how’s it going?” he asks.
“Very good, Mr. Bradshaw.”
He reaches his hand out, and Scott reluctantly takes it for a shake. “I just want to tell you how appreciative I am of everything you’ve done for my daughter and my family.”
Scott smiles, but I can tell he’s irritated, that he’s having a hard time appreciating my dad’s words knowing what he knows.
There’s this impulse rising within me. It’s always been there when he’s around. This desire to tell him, but now that Scott’s here, for some reason, it’s more powerful than usual. I feel like I should tell him exactly what I’ve always thought and felt about everything he did wrong. I bite my tongue, though—like I always do.
Dad turns to me. “You did good for your sister. How are things going, Mikey?”
He’s nice enough, but that’s what pisses me off. Once again, he’s just pretending everything’s okay. But it’s not okay.I’mnot okay.
“They're fine.” I force the words out.
Dad scans me over. “When do you head back to Los Angeles?”
“Monday morning.”
“Well, good. I hope you have a safe trip. I wish we could have gotten to spend more time with you while you were here, but I understand you were busy.”
This is so like Dad. Fucking in denial about the fact that I’m so pissed about what happened. Acting like there are other reasons why I can’t make time to be with them or blow up whenever we wind up together. I just can’t hold back my rage: “I wasn’t busy. I didn’t want to see you.”
His gaze shifts to the floor. “Then I guess you can be on your way and continue pretending we don't exist.” He sighs, stressing his disappointment before he turns and walks toward Mom and Kate.
My face fills with heat.
The bastard. The fucking bastard. Turning this back on me like I’m the douchebag who caused this rift in our family.
In a moment, the rage, the hurt, the pain, and that impulse to say what I’ve been holding in all these years pushes through me.
“Fuck you,” I say through gritted teeth.
Dad turns around. I figure my face is about as red as his is turning. “What did you say to me?”
“Fuck you!” My shout is uninhibited, filled with the rage and hostility that's been pent up in me for years.
It's venomous. It’s the rage not of a man who’s nearly thirty, but an eleven-year-old boy who never stood up to this bastard.
Kate and Mom turn to see what all the commotion is about.
“What has gotten into you, Mikey? Are you trying to start another fight? Another spectacle? What is it with you and all these goddamned scenes you want to make?”
“I'm tired. Sick and fucking tired of you acting like I'm making a scene when you know exactly what I'm mad about.”
“You're just trying to start drama again.”
“I'm not trying to start drama. I just know that you owe me a little more than you've ever given me.”
“What do I owe you?”
“An apology, to say the least. I was a kid. I was young. I was confused. I didn't even know at first what I was looking at on that phone. You didn't just not take credit for what you did. You made me feel like I would destroy this family. Like I was the one who was doing something wrong by just knowing the truth. You made me feel guilty because you wanted to shut me up.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” His denial is obviously for Mom and Kate’s benefit. And maybe Kate won’t believe me. Maybe she’ll side with them, but for the first time ever, there’s at least one person in the room who knows the truth, and that feels incredible, freeing, empowering.
“Mom, do you not know what I'm talking about either?” I ask, giving her the chance to atone. “Because, as far as I'm concerned, you're just as guilty.”
