The doctor finally calls for us, and I take a sharp breath. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds to stand and gather Ghost’s things, but my father has sent another handful of threatening messages. All raging about how I better listen to him or else.
There’s a trail of sweat rolling down my temple. The space of this office is air conditioned, but I’m sweating.
I exchange a quiet greeting with the doctor before being taken into a room for Ghost’s appointment. My phone vibrates incessantly while she runs through basic questions about my cat, how he’s been doing the last few months, his diet, and everything else I try to focus on while my life is blowing up through text messages.
Only when the vet scribbles some notes on to her clipboard and says she’ll be right back, do I force myself to check my phone. Ghost snuggles into my hand while I open the unread thread of over forty new texts. I’m not brave enough to read through them all, but the last few are enough to prove my life will never be the same.
Dad
When you come into the office on Friday I’m going to wring you a new one. You’re going to wish you could turn back time because it’s going to be hours of hearing me go over why you’re a failure of a fucking son.
If I knew you were going to be such a fucking disappointment I would’ve wasted my life on Grant instead of you, you piece of shit.
Bring your cards on Friday so I can cut those up in front of your face.
I’m busy.
Maybe it’s because I realize I’m officially past the point of no return, and there’s not a world where I’d even consider choosing him over a holiday with my friends, but that text was the easiest to send.
I never thought my father loved me, really. Not as a son; Not even as an accessory to his success. Years ago, I came to terms with the fact that, to him, I’m nothing more than someone to carry on his name. He raised me to be known as Keller McCarthy’s son, from the day I was born to the day I would rest.
Despite that, I never imagined his cruelty would run this deep. Saying things to me that feel inhumane and gut-wrenching. So full of hate.
I don’t want to be considered his son ever again.
Dad
If you’re not there on Friday, you better hope I don’t find where the fuck you are. I have eyes all over this city. I have trackers in places you couldn’t even dream of. I’ll show up just to embarrass you and ruin whatever holiday you think is more important than me.
Ok.
The doctor walks back into the room. Before we go over the basic motions of Ghost’s check-up, I block my father’s number.
thirty-one
LOCKE
Rosalie is always right.When we enter Grant and Liliana’s apartment on Friday night, it’s flawlessly decorated. Every piece of furniture is in a perfectly symmetrical position—from the white couch to the opened curtains. Not a single brown ribbon out of place, and not a spot of lint dusting the hardwood floors. Liliana and Grant’s knitted ochre dress and cardigan combo are even coordinated to the décor.
I’m not sure when they had time to pull this off. Grant, Billie, and I stayed out late last night walking around the city. The attention to detail looks too polished to be done in one morning by two people.
Maybe I shouldn’t underestimate Liliana and just appreciate how put together their apartment is. It does look like she ran the place like a boot camp. A cozy, fall-themed decorating boot camp.
When Grant comes to greet us, Rosie makes a comment on how good the turkey looks. She’s right about that, too. Ourcontainers of adobo and lumpia look tiny next to it on the kitchen island.
My brother chuckles. “I didn’t even know she could cook a turkey, but I got coached on basting for an hour straight.”
“Told you she runs a tight ship.” Rosie elbows his side and smiles. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
“If you see her lecturing me on how to do something, don’t help me. I’m exactly where I want to be.” His hands go up, laughter echoing throughout the apartment.
We keep joking. Billie and Derek arrive within a few minutes of each other, both with dishes of their own. I’m sure Billie’s mashed potatoes are instant and not at all “seasoned to perfection” like she claims, but I let her have this one. She’s too excited about tonight for me burst her bubble.
I’ve been in this apartment enough times to know the long dining table is new. The square gray table is gone, replaced with a longer, rectangular one, that can accommodate more people than the last.
We’re seated at the new table with our plates of food, small talk barely dying down when Rosie asks exactly what I’m thinking.
“When did you guys get this table?”
