Silas:I hate that you’re right.
Gideon:Take Kat somewhere fancy and wear the pink tie.
Me:OR A BOW TIE.
I’m only halfway to the door when the doorbell rings again. My mom said something about a package getting delivered, so I didn’t think anyone was waiting, but now I shout “Sorry! Coming!” and practically fling the door open.
My father is standing on the other side of the screen door, his hands in his pockets but otherwise at attention. He’s wearing a T-shirt for some 5k tucked into his jeans, along with some startlingly white tennis shoes, and I had no idea he was coming.
I stare at him, too surprised to say anything.
“Can I come in?” he asks with a clear undertone ofYou’re being impolite, and isn’t that some fucking irony.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my son,” he says and opens the screen door himself, stepping through and letting it slam behind him. He looks around the living room like he’s cataloguing every change that’s taken place in the last two and a half years, probably noting down every picture frame that’s not perfectly level with the ceiling.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I thought a surprise would be best.”
Of course he did. Why ask for anyone else’s input, ever, for any reason?
“I’m busy right now.”
“I’ll wait until you’re done. Mind if I get a drink?”
My father doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks past me and into the kitchen. The fridge is in the same place and the glasses are in the same place, and as he pours himself a glass of iced tea and drinks half of it while standing at the sink, everything looks exactly like it used to.
I don’t want him here. I thought I was pretty fucking clear about where our relationship stands and how I feel about it, but I guess not. What, did I think he’d listen? Admiral Lopez doesn’t listen. Listening might involve considering what someone else wants.
“What classes are you taking?” he asks, still standing at the sink while I shove papers together into an unruly stack. I’ll organize them later. Probably. Or not.
“Art History II and Advanced Graphic Design Tools.” I almost make up something he’d think is even more useless, like basket weaving or interpretive dance.
I don’t have to look to feel the disapproval. “Any business classes? Math? Science? Computers?”
Yes, actually. I took an accounting class last semester because I needed a credit and it seemed practical. But telling him that would be giving in.
“No.”
He clears his throat. “What are you going to do with those?”
“I was thinking I’d change my name to Gentle Rainbow, join a commune, and sketch drawings of peoples’ feelings for money. Maybe host a drum circle in my spare time.” I close my laptop and put it on top of my paper stack, then shove it all off to one side.
My father walks over, pulls out a chair, puts himself in it. Puts the iced tea on a coaster. “Sit,” he says.
“I’m good.”
“I don’t like you hovering over me. Sit, so I can look you in the eye.” He pauses. “Please.”
I step back so I can lean against the counter, arms folded over my chest. There, I’m not hovering; yes, I’m being childish.
His jaw moves, and I canseehim forcing himself to not bark an order. The back of my neck prickles because I’m goddamn thirty and disobeying my father still makes my stomach twist.
Christ.
He fits one fist inside the other on top of the table, back ramrod straight. His temples are grayer than they were the last time I saw him, months ago. His haircut is the exact same shape it’s been all my life.
