It’s time. I have to do this now, before I chicken out.
“Dad…” I push out.
“Yeah, Miles?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“We’re talking.”
“I want to talk about…” The word catches in my throat, some remnant of how I’ve managed to keep this down all these years.Stop. Don’t.The screaming intensifies, but I fight it, push it out through my teeth. “Mom.”
He freezes with his spoon in the Mongolian beef, his face turning a shade paler.
Terror grips my chest, reminding me of how easily this could turn into a full-blown panic attack.Keep on breathing.
Dad swallows. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” He’s not making eye contact as he continues transplanting the beef to his plate. “Let’s just have a nice dinner tonight. Here, you need a plate.” He grabs the plastic plate and passes it to me, his gaze finally meeting mine, and there’s desperation in his expression, as though in taking the plate, I would be agreeing to play along with this fantasy.
I can’t do it, though. Not anymore.
“It’s not only Mom I need to talk to you about. It’syoutoo. And what happened back then.”
He sets the plate on the table, still avoiding eye contact. “I’ve told you, you need to talk to someone. I’ve always encouraged you to see a therapist, especially after the fire at Sigma Alpha.”
“The one I told you I didn’t start.”
His gaze wavers, and I can tell he’s skeptical. “It’s just hard for me to understand why you would have gone to the police if it hadn’t been you.”
“Because you didn’t ask me about it. You didn’t want to talk about it. Just wanted to handle it and move on like you did with Mom.”
That clearly strikes him like a punch to the face. He flinches. “I actually have some references I could give you, and someone in my pickleball group sees someone. I can get their name, and you can vet them out for the best fit. How’s that?”
The way he says it, it sounds like this is some fun game of Pick Your Therapist.
“I don’t want a recommendation from someone on your pickleball team,” I say, frustrated at how he’s acting. “You’re my dad, and I need to talk toyou.”
“I just think you will have a lot of private thoughts about your mom, and a professional could really help you work through those, and you know, now that you mention it…” He pushes tohis feet. “I need to look up his information on Facebook. I think he might have a new number because I have his work card.”
My heart races as he rushes for the kitchen entryway.
No, stop. Stop!
I can’t get the words out, though, and he’s just reached the entryway when, in a panic, I shout, “Don’t leave me again!”
I don’t sound like the angry, fuck-all guy I usually am. I sound much gentler. More vulnerable…and terrified.
Dad’s frozen in place, and the adrenaline coursing through me settles, though I know I can’t let my guard down, certain he could still keep going. He turns around to face me, his eyes wide with horror. “What did you say, Miles?”
He knows damn well what I said, but it bears repeating. “Don’t…leave…me…again.”
He stares at me blankly, as though something I said shut down part of his brain. Finally, he seems to snap out of it and steps toward me. My muscles relax, as though it’s the reassurance I needed that he’s not going anywhere.
“Miles, I was not in a good place back then. I thought you would eventually come to understand that.”
I hesitate, trying to pick my words carefully, though I quickly realize it’s another delay, an attempt to keep from having to address any of it, to keep it buried inside me. And I just can’t anymore.
“I do understand, but it doesn’t change how it felt. I was a kid, and my mom had just killed herself, and then my dad’s MIA. And Aunt Tilly and Uncle Roger are making up all these reasons why I couldn’t see you.”
He searches the room, and at first I think he’s looking for a way to get out of this conversation, but then his gaze is far off, and he bows his head. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
