He doesn’t say anything, just drinks his own beer, staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to continue.
I don’t.
I take a sip of my own drink, trying to wrap my head around a few thoughts that have been constantly on my mind.
I’ve been wondering if I made the right choice when it comes to my father. I feel cruel. Part of me knows that what I said was necessary. I have the right to protect my peace, even if there is lingering doubt that I’ve made the wrong choice. Did I do it out of anger? Is cutting him out truly what’s best for me? What if he’s truly telling the truth this time?
A quiet growl resonates in my throat at the stupid thought. That’s the part of me that still holds on to hope. I fucking hate hope sometimes.
“Okay, either talk to me, or I’ll figure out a way to bench you until you go to therapy.”
“Therapy? I don’t need therapy. I just have a lot on my mind. I’m fine. I promise.”
Winston sighs, shaking his head as he stands, then fishes out his wallet. “Okay, then.” He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and slaps it on the countertop. “Have a great night, Elias. I’ll see you at work.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t go. Jesus. I’ll talk.” I chuckle, pointing to his chair. “Sit down. Dramatic much?”
He snatches his money back and tucks it in his pocket. “Well, I wasn’t sure if you were going to be an asshole the entire night, and honestly, I’d rather be around my beautiful pregnant wife.”
I chortle into the pint before taking a swig of beer. “That’s fair. I’m sorry. I’ll talk, but I don’t know where it will lead. My head is kind of a mess.”
He slaps me on the shoulder, a gesture that’s supposed to give reassurance. “Good. Now, spill. This isn’t between doctors. We aren’t on the clock. We’re friends. You can trust me not to say anything to anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I shake my head, looking left, then right before downing another swallow of beer. I wipe my mouth off with a napkin and turn in my seat to look at him. “No, that’s not why I haven’t said anything. Honestly, it’s me. I’m in my forties and if I say my issues out loud, I’ll sound childish. I’ll sound like a kid who didn’t get enough love.”
“Did you?” he asks with no judgment, just simple curiosity.
“Did I what?”
“Get enough love as a child?”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “Come on. Seriously? I’m not…” I can’t finish my sentence because years of hiding behind the bars of the isolation I forced myself into begin to unravel. “We don’t have to do this, Winston. Really.” I swallow and my leg begins to shake with anxiety. The weight of emotions threatens to break from my tongue like a bursting dam.
I don’t know where to start. I’ve never had anyone to tell my feelings to before. After my mom died, Dad became who he is now, and I was left on my own. I didn’t trust easily afterthat. I kept to myself. If I kept to myself, no one could get close enough to hurt me again. Personal boundaries and space became too important to me. Instead of growing out of it, I grew into it, and now it’s like I’m a fucking child all over again because I’m confronted with the man who paved the path for my shortcomings.
Pathetic.
“I’m here for you, Elias. No judgments. Take the time you need.”
I groan, running my fingers through my hair, and become frustrated. “I don’t know, Winston. I don’t know where to start. I was fine before my dad wandered into the hospital, and now he’s stirred up all the feelings that I had?—”
“Buried,” he finishes my thought for me. “Not forgotten. Buried. And you weren’t fine. Don’t forget who recruited you.” He eyes me before taking a swig. “You don’t think I don’t know what it means for someone to be a master of their craft at your age? It meant a lot of personal sacrifice.”
I nod in agreement, getting lost in my thoughts while downing more of my drink. “The moment my mom died and I couldn’t save her, I knew I wanted to be a doctor. When I knew how she died, I knew that was the kind of doctor I wanted to be. Everything changed for me after she died. Life became a lot harder. My dad changed for the worse. Every day he was drinking. Every day I was blamed for her death. Every day he was yelling at me for something. Every now and then he hit me, but he was grieving—that’s what I told myself. I made excuses for him. I was just a kid, I know that. Dealing with him changed me as a person. The moment I could, I left for college and I never looked back. Neither did he.”
I scratch my chin, remembering when he smashed a bottle on the floor and a piece of a glass ricocheted from the force and hit me in the face. I still feel the scar. A small bump. Nothing anyone can notice.
“I’ve kept to myself since then. It was easier than dealing with people’s emotions. I was too tired, too exhausted to hear about anyone else’s hardships. Again, I know how that sounds. I’m a real piece of fucking work, but I had to do what I had to do to move forward in my life.”
“Surviving. You were surviving, Elias. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Yeah, but in doing that, what did I miss out on? I’m forty-three years old and don’t know how to emotionally regulate myself. That’s…that’s so…” I exhale a slow breath. “Sad. It’s sad, that’s all.” I finish off my beer, and the bartender is there with another just like he said he would be.
The lights in the bar become too bright. The conversations beside me become too loud. The condensation of the glass drips down my fingers.
Loud boisterous laughs come from a table of women having the time of their lives. They’re happy, carefree, living exactly the way a person should.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to allow myself that amount of happiness.
