I take a deep breath and blow it out. I’m not at all ready. I don’t want to do this. I’d rather rot in my bed, watching videos until my brain leaks out my ears. “Yeah.”
I get up, Brekky complaining at the loss of attention, and head to the door as Mom opens it. And there he is. My dad, standing on the walkway to our house.
“Sidney!” He spreads his arms wide. He’s bulked up since the last time I saw him, shaggy blond hair glowing in the bright morning sun, cheeks red, but not from the cold. They’re always red like that; when I was younger, Mom told me it’s something that happens when you drink a lot, and eventually it doesn’t go away, even if you stop.
I smile as wide as I can and step into his arms. Even though I’ve been anxious all week, even though I’m waiting for this day to go south, something about the way he squeezes me makes my shoulders relax. In these moments, he feels like my dad, the dad he can be when he’s sober and hasn’t said anything stupid yet. He smells like Old Spice and cigarettes, like he always has.
“Hi, Kyle,” Mom says behind me.
“Nicole. What’s up.” His voice vibrates against my ear where my face is pressed to his chest, arms still around me.
“When should I expect you back?”
He glances down at me. “What do you think, kiddo? I know we talked about running away to Mexico.”
I half smile, and look at Mom. The line between her eyes deepens as she frowns. Silence reigns, broken only by a car passing by, and someone’s dog barking a few houses down.
“Aaaaall righty then,” Dad says when neither of us responds. “Three or four hours max; the trailhead isn’t too far of a drive. I’ll bring them back in one piece and I’ll text you if we’re running behind.”
“Great.” She looks at me. “See you soon, honey.”
I follow Dad out to his car, the same Corvette he’s been driving since I was a kid, just worse for the wear now. He used to take really good care of it before the divorce, but now the paint is scratched, rust stains spreading on the roof. Inside, it smells like cigarette smoke, and I do my best to breathe through my mouth. As we settle in, Dad blows into something attached to the dashboard; after a minute, he turns the key, and the car starts.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the device.
“Breathalyzer,” he says, eyes on the road. “Gotta blow into it to start the car now. I know I didn’t mention it in my text, but I wanted to tell you in person.” He glances over at me. “I got a DUI. That’s why I was in treatment.”
I nod, and something about my expression must give it away, because he shakes his head. “Your mom already told you, huh?”
“Yeah.” I watch the side of his face as his jaw clenches. “She just told me it happened. She didn’t say anything bad.”
“Of course, of course,” he says. “It’s just not something you should have to hear about from someone else, why I’m in ...rehab.” He falters on the last word, punching the brakes a little too hard for the red light ahead of us.
I bite back the responses that spring to mind:Because being in the dark and thinking you were dead is any better? BecauseI’m so shocked you finally ended up in treatment? What else was she supposed to do?Instead, I roll the window down and stick my arm out, letting the wind buffet my hand up and down.
“How about you?” Dad asks.
“I’m good,” I say automatically. “I’m president of the Queer Alliance. Co-president, I mean. I’m sharing it with this guy Forrest.”
“Good for you,” Dad says. “I always knew you would be good at the leadership thing.”
“Thanks.”
“Any crushes? Boyfriends, girlfriends ...whoever-friends?”
I grimace a little, but he doesn’t see. “Not really. I’m trying to stay focused on school.”
“That’s my kiddo,” he says, turning at the bottom of the hill toward the freeway entrance. One hand dials up the volume on the stereo, and I recognize Kurt Cobain’s voice immediately; other than Eminem and ’90s hip-hop, grunge is Dad’s favorite.
“You recognize this, right?” he asks.
“‘Heart-Shaped Box,’ by Nirvana,” I say. It’s an old game we used to play when I was younger, where he’d choose a song and have me identify the title and artist.
“I taught you well, young Padawan,” he says. “Wish I would have been around to see them live. But I got to see Pearl Jam, so there’s that. Have I told you that story?”
I nod. I’ve heard it before, but that doesn’t stop Dad.
“I was eighteen. Just a couple years older than you,” he says, accelerating up the freeway ramp. “Me and your momhad just started seeing each other, it was maybe our second or third date. High school sweethearts.” He flashes me a grin. “I got tickets from a buddy of mine who was sick and couldn’t go to see them play the Showbox. It was a benefit concert for voter registration.”
