A slew of pissed off words probably sat on the tip of his angry tongue, but he knew just as well as I did, that if he made a move to unleash them…
That’d be it.
I was done with this fight. It was one I’d never signed up for but found myself contending in regardless. Looking at my old man in his old chair, I realized that this was a fight he had with himself.
I was just the catalyst, the one he’d waited up for, ready to throw punches at.
Exhaling, I ran a hand through my hair and stepped fully into the living room. “Look, Dad, I’m really trying here. I—“
He cut me off with a harsh laugh from his chair, angry eyes assessing me from across the room. “You went gallivanting around the world, screwing anything in a skirt—escapades splayed out on magazines and the god damn Internet, shaming the name that I gave you and breaking your mother’s heart. You knocked up a girl that was always too good for you, and you let her raise your kid alone. And now I’m supposed to just congratulate you on finally pulling your goddamn head out of your ass? I don’t think so.”
My jaw clenched so tightly. I would have worried about chipping teeth if I wasn’t so hyper-focused on the spit hurdling from my father’s mouth.
The clock ticked seconds away, and my father smiled—slow, deliberate, and angry, like he thought he had the upper hand.
“I don’t need your fucking congratulations. And yeah, you’re right. I didall thatand more, but I’m here now, head out of my god damn ass, and I’m doing everything to repair what I’ve damaged. You, though?” I paused, laughing darkly and shaking my head. “You’re an angry man so coated in pride that you can’t admit you have a problem, a problem you take out on me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffed, eyes darting back and forth, like he was too pissed to focus.
“You can’t stand me because I represent what you took from her,” I told him gutturally, my glare unwavering. The strained silence between us was punctured only by the heavy breathing of two pissed off adults.
“I can’t stand you because you’re an embarrassment.” He denied, spittle flying from his mouth as he stepped into my space, index finger pushing into my chest.
Drawing in a controlled breath, I stepped back and shook my head. I could no longer shoulder the responsibility of being his scapegoat; of letting him back me into a corner where I felt I had no choice but to lash out against his aggression with my own.
This time, I wasn’t having it.
I’d lived with the man for eighteen years; I’d learned a thing or two about him, my parents, and my mom. I knew how he ticked better than he did.
“Mom was going places. You wanted to keep her, so you trapped her, and she stayed. But you weren’t expecting the guilt, were you? It’s easier to take it out on me, right? Easier to just blame me. You can pretend its “tough love” all you want, old man. But it’s just your deep-rooted self-hatred lashing out at a physical representation of your own shitty choices.”
This time, I anticipated his swing, and I ducked, easily avoiding it. My heart was thrumming with adrenaline, but I couldn’t hit him. I wouldn’t hit him.
“Go on. Ask me how I know,” I barked, dodging another swing. My question—so outside my typical way of handling him in one of his fits—threw him off guard, and he paused, brows knitted together with confusion. “Ask me.”
“What in the god damn hell are you talking about?” he snarled, lip curling.
“Blue trunk in Gramps attic.” I exhaled, my heart pinching as I pictured the old trunk of my mother’s memories. He paled, eyes widening as they focused on me, fist suspended in midair: her diaries, her photographs, newspaper clippings of articles written about her in local papers. My mother had been a promising pianist, singer, and songwriter, and she’d stopped it all to raise a family. “You’re lucky she loves you, and you’re lucky that Connor and I were enough for her. But don’t make this about me when it’s not.”
I left him in stunned silence, charging quietly up the steps. I padded past Connor’s closed bedroom door. No lights were on; she was likely sleeping. My parents’ door was open a crack, but Mom’s gentle snores told me she was still sleeping.
I slipped into in my room long enough to grab my duffle bag and acoustic. I’d call my mom and Connor in the morning and explain things, but for now—I needed to get the fuck out of there before my restraint buckled, and I did something I’d regret.
Gramps’ letter caught my attention when I turned to leave. I tucked the letter deeper inside my duffle bag before tossing it over my shoulder and picking up my case.
Calmly and quietly, I descended the stairs. I glanced into the living room as I passed, seeing Dad still in his chair, staring at the television; his expression unreadable. Shaking my head, I continued outside, closing the door behind me.
Tossing my stuff in the back of the Jeep, I ran purely off the adrenaline, my hands trembling slightly.
I drove toward Dare’s. Dialing his number, I let it ring. He answered just before voicemail picked up, sounding winded. “Hello?”
“Hey. You still up?”
“Yeah, why? What’s going on?” he asked, pausing to guzzle something back. “Everything okay?”
“The old man and I just got into it. If the offer still stands, could I crash on your mom’s couch?”
“Sure. Yeah, that’d be fine,” Dare said after a pause. “How far away are you?”
