Ooh, okay, deep breaths. Don’t blow up. Don’t lose your cool.
“You know what.” I wave him off then rack up the balls. “I’d be happy if you would just drop it already and let us play a round.”
“How about this deal?—”
“Fuck’s sake, Dad, what’s with you and deals?”
He ignores my question entirely and sets up to break. “I know you, Beck. I know, as your father, that something is going on. I wish you would just talk to me about it, but since that doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen, I’m resorting to this. I win, and you start talking about what’s going on with you. You win, and I shut up.”
“Do you know how to shut up? Because you’ve changed our deal a couple times now, so I don’t really know?—”
I’m cut off by the sound of the cue ball connecting with the others. Two stripes manage to find their way into pockets.
“I’m stripes,” he states.
Motherfucker.
For the most part when I play in Boston with Callie, I take it seriously but still keep it fun. Now I’m locked in. I’m not about to have this fucking argument with him when really, I’m fine. Not entirely sure what vendetta he’s got against “fine,” but it’s true. Why he needs this profound answer of my happiness is starting to piss me off.
Our game is tight, each one of us pulling ahead by one ball each time, but my luck strikes and I’m up to the eight ball first.
“Eight ball, left pocket,” I call, then send the ball right where I called it…along with the cue ball. “Fuck!”
“And that’s a scratch. I win.”
Tossing my pole on the table, I can already feel the start of a headache. “I’m not doing this. I’m fine—why can’t you accept that?”
“Say you’re happy and I’ll drop it.”
“What is the hang up on that word?” I huff when his only answer is a blank stare. I pull off my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m happy. There. Said it.”
“Say it andmean it, Beckham. I don’t know why you think you can suddenly start lying to me. You have this tell, you always have.”
“You’re off your rocker, I don’t have?—”
“When you’re lying you take your glasses off. If you have your contacts in, you look away to avoid eye contact. You’ve done it since you were a kid. Almost like you don’t want to see your own bullshit. You’ve done it multiple times while talking about Boston, and you did it when you called that ‘friend’ of yours nothing.”
Christ.I put my glasses back on. “That is…you’re…” I try to find any sort of comeback. Some reasonable explanation, but dammit. “It’s not always that deep, Dad. Maybe my glasses were bothering me.”
Hetsks.“Yeah, and you just looked off to the right. Stop fucking with me, tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing! Nothing is going on. I’m fine!” I yell, then immediately pull back. “Sorry. Just tell me what you need from me to prove that I’m good. Really, I am.”
“Answer my questions. Honestly,” he deadpans.
Shit, I’m going to regret this. I give him a nod.
“Why haven’t you brought anyone home?”
Yep, instant regret. “Hell. Seriously?—”
“Answer the question, son. It’s not that hard.”
I push off the table. “Well, the answer’s not that simple. Maybe I just haven’t found the one. Maybe I’m not interested in settling down. I’m thirty, it’s not unusual to be single at thirty.”
“No, it’s not, but you just said maybe more times than necessary. You’ve brought no one home in the eight years you’ve been playing. No relationship at all, that I’m aware of. I got it in the beginning, you were in your early twenties—but now…it’s like you’re not even trying.”
“Why do I have to be trying right now? What is it that has you so caught up on the fact that I’m not in a relationship? What does that have to do with anything?”
