The stove clicks and Mike comes to join me in the living room, a plate and glass of juice in hand as he lowers onto the sofa.
“Sure you’re not hungry?”
I shake my head. “No, we’ll probably grab something from Dusty’s when we’re done, so…”
He shrugs in asuit yourselfkind of way, then cuts into his pancakes.
“How are things going?” he asks, taking a bite right after.
If he followed Pandora, he wouldn’t be asking that. But with the TV set to the news, it’s only a matter of time before those outlets are reporting on West’s ordeal, too.
Still, I give myself a break and don’t steer the conversation that way. He’ll see the mugshot when he sees it.
“Things are… going,” is all I say back.
He nods and chews. “Sounds like life.”
It sure as hell does.
“How’s my son-in-law doing these days?”
I take a deep breath, thinking of my husband in two warring lights. In one visual, he’s a wet mess with bloody knuckles and rage-filled eyes. In the other, he’s standing beneath the shower, just like I left him this morning—naked, raw vulnerability in his eyes.
The rasp of hisI love youechoes in my thoughts, then I think of his text, an invitation to dinner.
“He’s fine. Hanging out with his grandfather for the day.”
Mike nods. “He tell you we chatted a few weeks ago?”
My brow arches in confusion at first, but then I recall Pandora’s post from about that long ago, showing pics of West stopping here without context.
“He didn’t, but I guess I kind of knew.”
“It’s always good to see him.”
He’s being vague now, which makes me even more curious.
“Was it a nicetalk, or…”
He swallows, then glances at me briefly before sipping from his cup. “It was. Mostly guy stuff, ya know?”
I want to pry and ask what that means, but I get the feeling he regrets bringing it up.
A long stint of awkward silence passes, and I check the time again. Scar’s got five minutes.
“Listen, I definitely don’t mean to overstep, but I’m worried about you two.”
He leaves it at that, but he’s said enough. I now know West confided in him about us. I’m not angry he felt comfortable talking to my dad, but I’m not sureI’mcomfortable talking to my dad. This is uncharted territory, because Mike was never sober long enough for me to come to him about real-life stuff.
Or much ofanythingreally.
“He told me about the drinking,” he says. “I understand why that’s a trigger for you, and I know that’s completely my fault, but… it’d be wrong if I didn’t tell you what I see.”
I’m not sure why, but my eyes are starting to sting. The last couple days have been so emotional it shouldn’t surprise me everything’s coming to the surface again, but being this open around my dad isn’t something I’m used to.
“And what is it that you see exactly?” I ask quietly, blotting my eyes to keep from ruining my makeup.
“That despite his misstep, and despite what your mind is screaming at you these days… West isn’t me.”
