“No problem.”
I make my own plate. Sit across from him.
We eat in silence.
Just the scrape of forks on plates and the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock that’s been stuck at 3:47 for as long as I can remember but still makes ticking sounds.
This house is full of things that don’t quite work but refuse to quit.
Feels appropriate.
My dad sets down his fork. “I think it’s time for things to get back to normal.” His voice is rough. Tired. The voice of a man who’s been apologizing his whole life and is exhausted by it. “I’m glad you’ve been here. But I know you’ve got your own life. The team. Your girlfriend. You don’t need to be babysitting me.”
“I’m not babysitting you.”
“Feels like it.”
“You broke your collarbone. You need help. I’m helping.” But my back twinges. A reminder that the couch and I are not friends.
“I’m okay, Brody. Really.”
Except he’s not. And I’m done letting it go.
“I think you need help,” I say. The words come out harder than I intended. “Real help. Treatment. And not just for the drinking.”
He twists his glass. Won’t look at me.
“I’ve tried it.” His voice is flat. Defeated. “AA. Rehab. Therapy.” He waves his good hand vaguely. “Doesn’t take.”
“Dad—”
“No, Brody. I can’t—I…” He pauses, staring at his plate with a completely defeated look, refusing to meet my eye. “I can’t even get past Step Three.”
“Step Three…?”
“Accepting that there’s a higher power in my life and surrendering to it.” He lifts his gaze, his face etched with hurt. “Iused to believe in something like that…your mother—” His voice cracks. “She believed. And look what happened.”
My chest tightens. That feeling like someone’s pressing on my sternum with both hands. Like the air in this kitchen is too thick to breathe properly.
“I would have lost everything if it weren’t for you.” He finally looks up. His eyes are bloodshot. Red-rimmed. The eyes of a man who hasn’t slept well in years. “You paid for this house. Got me out of debt—I don’t know how many times. Cleaned up every mess I made.” His voice breaks again. “You are the best thing I ever did.”
My throat is tight. Burning. I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want the weight of being the one good thing in his life.
I’ve heard it before, frankly. Sometimes it feels like part of the game. Still, every time, a slapshot to the chest.
“It’s fine,” I say. I start clearing plates even though we’re not done eating.
“It’s not. Brody, I know it’s getting to you. You’re not playing well?—”
“I’m just in a slump.” I start washing the dishes, the water scalding. “My luck will turn around. You’ll see. Always does.”
Wait.
No.
That’s not?—
I freeze.
