It has to be done, though. This has to happen three more times, and I can’t have him doing this after every single one.
“What if what you want isn’t what you need?” He offers me a hand when I try to stand up. I slap it away.
Leaning on the counter, I watch in the mirror as my titties move with my swaying body.
I expected my dad to come in at some point, but I guess Callahan walking in stopped him. That makes me curious about how them meeting each other went.
“Monty, sit down.”
“No,” I harrumph, refusing to make eye contact.
“Well, at least drink some water.”
“No.” I try not to lick my lips and show him how dry they are.
“You’re like a grumpy old man, do you know that?” He stands up and comes to tower behind me. I’m shocked into silence at the comparison.
“Or better yet, a goat. A stubborn old goat.”
I bust out laughing, and this just makes me even more mad at him. How dare he interrupt my bad mood?
“I can’t believe you compared me to a goat and an old man.”
“I can’t believe this is the first time it’s happened to you.”
I put my sweats back on and open the bathroom door. I know I should head for my bed, but I do need water, preferably cold.
“I understand why you showed up, but when I ask you not to do something, I need you to listen to me.”
“Even if you’re wrong?”
“Especially when I’m wrong.”
He shakes his head, but then looks over my face. My lack of smile must say enough because he nods his head. I know he doesn’t want to agree, but he does for me anyway.
“Well, you can go home now. You came and did what you wanted.” I take the stairs slowly, all my energy zapped out of me.
If I saw myself wobbling slowly, one step at a time, I would have to agree with him about my being an old man. I hope he thinks of it that way, instead of realizing in this moment how weak I really am. Especially when I take his hand when things start to go even more loopy.
Before we reach the kitchen, he pulls me into his chest and whispers in my ear, “Your dad invited me to stay for dinner.”
I turn to see him looking extra chipper about this fact.
“I think I won him over in our five-minute conversation.” Pecking me on the cheek, he lets me go.
Silenced again, I make my way into the kitchen. My dad is in front of the stove with his wok on a burner, and the rice cooker on the counter.
“He’s making stir fry,” I say to Callahan, while moving over to the fridge.
“I love stir fry,” he says.
“You from Boston, son?” My dad asks, looking up from the cutting board.
“Yeah, born and raised, but my people are Irish.”
My dad’s eyebrows lift at this. He pats him on the back, then offers him a Guinness.
They both take a big sip after clinking their cans together. The gesture makes me feel like I’m in some alternate universe where I agreed to my boyfriend and my dad being best friends.
