I meant to tell him that in ahey, I’m not using all your foodkind of way, but it came out sounding a lot more rude than I intended.
“That’s alright.”
My dad moves through the room to open the fridge, taking out one of his containers of whatever he made last weekend. He passes behind me and pops it into the microwave.
“Venom’s looking good this year.”
Is he really trying to make small talk?
Probably not. He’s probably trying to remind me of how disappointed he still is that I never wanted to play hockey like he did in college.
Because that’s what he loves to do.
Remind me how much of a disappointment I am every chance he gets.
“Haven’t really been keeping up,” I tell him because…fuck it. Might as well disappoint him even more.
After placing the lid on the skillet, I open the fridge again and take out some broccoli. I’m worried that if I don’t look busy, my dad will keep trying to have a conversation with me, eventually bringing up school or my future or something else that’s bound to lead to an argument. So I ignore his presence and start cutting up broccoli.
“Dylan Ross?”
I peer over my shoulder and silently scold myself for leaving my laptop open on the counter.
“Um, yeah,” I say as I go back to my task. “My friends and I were talking about him the other day. I was just looking him up out of curiosity.”
“Don’t you have more important things you could be working on?” he asks, disapproval dripping off his tongue. “Like schoolwork?”
“I was just taking a break. Iamallowed breaks, right?”
“Yes, Jackson,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But this hardly seems productive.”
“That’s kind of the point of a break,” I mutter under my breath.
My dad falls silent after that.Thank god.
After getting the broccoli cut up, I slide it off the cutting board with the knife into the skillet and put the lid back on to finish cooking. When the silence becomes a bit too unsettling, I peer back to see my dad staring at me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
I lean back against the counter next to the stove and cross my arms. “How hard is it to make chicken, broccoli, and rice?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It rarely ever forms a full smile. “I’m not talking about the food.”
I didn’t think he was, but I hate how our conversations always seem to leadthere.
Food is easy. My mom taught me how to cook, and I’ve always loved it. My future is different. I don’t know what the fuck I want to do. Changing my major was partly afuck youto my dad because he wanted me to come work with him, and I’ve never wanted that. I’ve always loved reading and writing and literature, but…applying it to a career? There’s journalism, teaching, maybe something in publishing. I just haven’t been able to narrow it down.
“I’m twenty-two, Dad. Of course I don’t know what I’m doing. But, at some point, you just have to let me figure it out for myself.”
I feel like a broken record. I’ve told him that before, usually out of spite more than anything. This time, I say it with more sincerity, almost like a plea.
I’m too fucking tired to fight tonight.
“You’re right.”
Okay, did I just have a fucking aneurism or did my dad actually say that I’m right about something?
