Charlie feels himself sinking. His wrath toward his mother, which has sustained him for a long time, begins to ebb, exposing a bedrock of need. He’s been so angry at her for keeping him in the dark. He’s imagined many scenarios:
His father is so wonderful she can’t bear to share Charlie.
His father is actually dead and she won’t give him the details out of some kind of misguided guilt.
His father is famous.
His father is a felon.
But it looks like his father is just a junkie.
Patrick walks back toward the table. Their waitress returns with coffee and their pancakes. Patrick sits, meets Charlie’sgaze sideways. “You were saying how hard you looked for me,” says Charlie.
“I sure did,” says his father.
Charlie uses the side of his fork to cut into his blueberry pancakes, then spears a large mouthful. “Tell me more?” he says.
“I have a quick errand,” says Patrick. “But I’ll be back.”
“What?” says Charlie.
“It’s a work emergency,” says Patrick. Charlie wants to hate him—he does, in fact, hate him—but his father’s desperation corrodes any anger into pity.
“So you’re an addict,” he says.
“I want to get better,” says Patrick. “Iwillget better. I want—” He looks at Charlie. His eyes are pools of need. “I’m sorry,” he says. Patrick stands up. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to be…” he says. He pauses. “I thought coming here, that maybe I would somehow…”
“Just go,” says Charlie. “I’ve got Mom.”
Patrick looks stricken. But he takes the chance Charlie’s given him to break away. He turns back a few times, as if he has something to say, but his addiction is more powerful than any remnants of love, and he exits the café.
Charlie sits at the table for a minute. He takes a bite, then another. He cleans his plate, then starts on his father’s pancakes. He opens up TikTok.
MY DAD IS A JUNKIE,he says.
I DON’T EVEN NEED A SOUNDTRACK FOR THIS ONE.
I FOUND MY DAD, AND HE’S A JUNKIE.
THAT’S WHY MY MOM NEVER…
He stops recording, just posts. He finishes his father’s sausage and home fries. The waitress returns. “You all right, sweetheart?” she says.
Charlie nods. Heisall right. He has his mom, and his friends, and his city, Austin, where he is beloved, where Zilker Park waits for him, day or night, where he can enter the greenbelt along secret trails and see his best friends. He feels sorry for the man named Patrick, and he feels sorry for himself, but he’s OK.
On his ride home, Charlie thinks about the “rager” happening that night in Barton Hills. He pulls into his driveway. What a waste the whole day has been. His Oak Glen house is small and falling apart. His mom is trying so hard. Charlie texts her:CAN WE GET FREEBIRDS BURRITOS FOR DINNER?
She responds in seconds.YES! EXTRA GUACAMOLE?
He smiles.RICE KRISPIE TREATS?
DON’T PUSH IT,she writes, though he knows she’ll splurge on the Saran-wrapped, buttery dessert squares they have by the Freebirds cash register.
He types quickly: I LOVE YOU.
She sends back exploding hearts: Mom is getting advanced.
His phone rings: Amir. “Baby. Hey.”
