I really don’t want him to see my shitty apartment. I told him it was a nice place. He’s going to worry. And then he’ll feel bad that I’m staying in such a shitty place.
But he’s going to find out anyway.
I text him the address.
He shows up at six. I was going to meet him outside, but again, he’s stubborn, and he’ll know something is up.
I open the door, and I see the expression. He's looking past me at the apartment. The peeling paint. The ancient radiator. The smell that no amount of candles can cover.
"Hey, Dad."
"Hey." He steps inside, and I watch as he takes it all in. "This is where you're living?"
"It's temporary, just until graduation."
He nods slowly, but I can see the wheels turning. He wants to say something—probably wants to offer to pay for something better—but he knows I won't accept. We've had this argument before.
"Let's get dinner," he says instead. "My treat."
We go to a steakhouse on the edge of town. It's nicer than anywhere I've eaten in weeks, and I suddenly feel underdressed in my jeans and sweater.
"So," he says after the waiter leaves. "You want to tell me what happened Saturday?"
"It's not a big deal."
"Sutton."
I sigh. "Declan got into a fight at a party. That's it."
"Over you."
"It wasn't about me."
"The videos say otherwise."
Of course, he's seen the videos. Everyone's seen the videos.
"He's dealing with some stuff," I say quietly. "The breakup. The pressure from his dad. Seattle. It all just came to a head."
"And you feel responsible."
It's not a question.
"I ended things with him so he could focus on his future. Instead, he's throwing it away. So yeah, I feel responsible."
“You can't control what other people do. You knew the breakup was going to be hard. I’m sorry you’re dealing with his bad choices.”
"He punched someone because of me."
"You ended things because you thought it was the right call. I think you did the right thing. He can’t see that right now. But you can't carry the weight of every choice he makes after that. You're not his keeper, kiddo."
I know he's right. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.
"I just want him to be okay," I whisper.
"I know."
We finish dinner mostly in silence. Dad pays, walks me back to my car, and pulls me into a hug.
