I come to a stop just inside the kitchen when I see my dad sitting on a stool at the island, his laptop open in front of him, sleeves rolled up and reading glasses perched low on his nose. He looks out of place, sitting here in the kitchen with a legal pad on one side of his computer and an open meal prep container on the other. Like he’s trying on normalcy and hoping it fits.
“Since when do you work in the kitchen?” My voice sounds rougher than I mean it to.
He peers up at me only briefly before his eyes flick back down to his screen. “Had some files to go through and got tired of staring at the same four walls. Thought I’d work down here for a bit while I eat.”
From what I know of my dad, that sounds like a flat-out lie.
As I remain hovering near the doorway, my stomach growls, loud in the quiet.
The glow of his screen casts enough light on his face that I can make out the subtle twitch in the corner of his mouth. That little sign that maybe, at some point in the past, he was actually capable of a smile.
“There are a couple extra meals in the fridge,” he says without taking his eyes off his laptop, fingers moving over the keys. “Made a little too much when I cooked this weekend. Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out too slowly, and I’m sure he catches the suspicion in it.
I move to the fridge, and as I open the door, the sound of typing stops. I can feel his eyes on my back, assessing, cautious. Like he’s trying to determine which version of me he’s getting today. The one who’s too tired to fight or the one who’s more than willing to throw his words back at him.
Grabbing one of the containers, I open the lid to find au jus pot roast with carrots and potatoes, and my mouth waters. The fact that it’s one of my favorite meals and my dad made extra only increases my suspicion.
But I try to ignore it as I pop the container in the microwave. It hums to life, and I stare at the spinning plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“How are classes going?”
Well, that’s new.
He’s never actuallyaskedme how school is going, usually just voicing his opinions on howhe thinksthey should be going, what he thinks my future should be, and how my life should look in five or ten years.
When I don’t answer after a few seconds, he tries again. “Not having trouble with any of the other students again, I hope. Professors treating you okay?”
I have half a mind to tell him I got spanked the other day just to see the look on his face.
Instead, I spin around and blurt out, “Why are you really down here?”
Because there’s no way he’s just hanging out here in the kitchen just for a change of scenery. Or to see my reaction to him making one of my favorite meals. Or to ask me about school and have a casual, civil conversation.
Sure enough…
He takes a deep breath, shuts his laptop, and removes his glasses before setting them down on the counter. “I wanted to apologize. And we both know how terrible I am at that.”
“Because you never do it?”
He lets out a breath through his nose that’salmosta laugh. “That’s one reason.”
I peer back at the microwave, willing the countdown on the clock to move faster, feeling entirely too uncomfortable in the presence of this side of my dad I haven’t seen in years.
He hasn’talwaysbeen an asshole. In fact, he used tolikemy company. There were times I couldn’t get rid of him.
Before my mom died, he was the perfect family man. He worked a lot but not nearly as much as he does now. He took us out to dinners and on vacations. He was there for the important things.
For months after my mom died, he couldn’t sleep in their room. He’d fall asleep in the living room while we were watching a movie, which we did a lot because neither of us could stand the silence. If I got up to go to bed, he’d wake up and pretend like he was good to finish the movie even though his eyes would be shut again minutes later. Like he didn’t want to be alone. I lost count how many times I slept on the couch while he spent the night in the recliner.
Somewhere between then and now, he changed. Maybe it was his grief. Maybe it was loneliness. Whatever it was made his armor harder, his walls higher, his edges sharper. I stopped trying to find my way past it all years ago. Or maybe I never tried all that hard in the first place.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, “What did you want to apologize for?”
He lowers his gaze and reaches up to scratch at the short beard along the side of his face. “This is your home, Jackson.It always has been, and it always will be.” His eyes finally meet mine. “I’m sorry for making you feel unwelcome.”
Unwelcome.
