“Yep, that’s it. So if you have anything shitty to say, now’s the chance to get it off your chest.”
Dad shrugs. He’s the picture of someone who couldn’t give two shits and is bored by this whole conversation, and I feel my gut cramp in response.
“I don’t care who you fuck,” he adds, flicking ash toward a battered old McDonalds ashtray my great uncle stole a million years ago. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
A flush of adrenaline hits me from out of nowhere, and I feel the room spinning. I ignore it, because if I let this man get tome when he’s not even trying, I really will be pathetic beyond all measure.
“Fine,” I spit. “As long as we’re not going to have a problem.”
Another lazy shrug, and he eyes me up and down casually.
“Ain’t no problem. But next time you want to have a temper tantrum you can keep me out of it. Don’t think I won’t teach you a lesson if you keep giving me attitude like this. I’ll still give you the belt, grown or not.”
I bristle, because it fucking irks the shit out of me when he talks to me like a little kid.
“Bitch please, I out-matured you in the fifth grade. Don’t act like you’ve ever been sober enough to give me the fucking belt.”
Silas, who has been a silent, stable presence behind me this whole time, squeezes my hip.
“Cade,” he whispers in my ear, a clear warning to calm my shit down.
It’s intimate, though. His warm breath on my ear, his chest pressed to my back, and the way Dad’s watching us while he does it is making me itchy. I feel exposed, even though his expression is relatively impassive. Like seeing his son get manhandled is no big deal.
The tension stretches out, until we’re interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open.
Mom is standing in the doorway, taking in the scene with an appraising eye.
“Cade,” she says. “Silas. What are you boys doing here?”
I want to spit back something pissy, but Silas squeezes me again in warning.
Fuck me. I don’t know why I agreed to this. I don’t know what Silas was hoping to achieve.
“What?” I ask him, turning around. “Seriously, what? Why are we here, if you don’t want me to fight with them? Fighting is the only thing they understand. Did you think I was just goingto come here and come out to him and we’d all cry and hug or something? I genuinely don’t understand what you’re trying to accomplish here. Every interaction I’ve had with this man in my life has pissed me off at best, and added a scar to my collection at worst. This was never going to be any different.”
A small, petty part of me was hoping the spiteful words would land, but Silas looks as placid as ever.
“I thought you could talk,” he says, his voice hushed. “Maybe tell everyone what you’re so angry about.”
That makes me laugh. It’s a loud, braying sound that disturbs the tension filling the trailer, and everyone stares at me slightly wide-eyed.
“I’m not fucking angry,” I say, very aware that the venom in my voice says otherwise, but unwilling to lose any conversational ground right now. “What could I possibly be angry about? He doesn’t even care. We came, and we did the thing, and he knows now, and he doesn’t fucking care. It’s all fine. Let’s go.”
Dad finally contributes to the conversation by sighing loudly and flicking more ash off his cigarette.
“You’ve always been such a drama queen. Always making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t want to hear you talking about scars, because I never fucking hit you. Nothing more than a normal spanking, at least. You can’t go ruining my reputation around town just because I’m not here and you think you’ve turned into hot shit now that you’re grown.”
My eyes widen while my body stays stock still, and for a second I think I might genuinely stroke out.
I move all at once, pulling myself out of Silas’s grip and stomping toward Kyle, who still looks comfortable in the arm chair.
“No fucking scars? What about this?” I half-yell before pushing my hair up to show him the old, faded scar that runsalong my hairline on the tight side. “When you tried to throw a bottle at your friend who pissed you off, but you missed and hit me instead. And made me lie to the doctor and social services, and then gave me a beer afterward as a reward. I was eight.”
Dad’s eyebrows raise, but other than that he stays still.
“Or this one?” I pull up my sleeve and flash the inside of my wrist, where silvery flesh is partially covered in a tattoo. “When I was trying to cook, but then your drunk ass tried to help and you ended up accidentally pushing me against one of the pots. When you saw, you put some butter on it and told me to be a man about it. I was thirteen.”
There’s a flicker of some kind of expression on his face, but that’s it. Other than that, he’s just staring at me.
