Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
A few drops of them from her eyes and I haven’t touched my bottle all day. A few drops of them and I’m sitting here in my truck, staring down at the black screen of my phone, all ready to call my son.
I’m ready to call Brian when I haven’t talked to him in months.
But I need to call him. I need to ask him what the hell is he doing? What is he thinking punishing her like this?
I thought he was punishing me – for good reason – but I didn’t know that he was punishing her, as well. They’ve always been inseparable and I thought nothing, not even this, would come between them.
Apparently, I was wrong.
Apparently, I need to do what I haven’t done in months. I need to call my son and have a talk with him.
It’s making me antsy, however. It’s making me shake and sweat, as if my bones are running dry and they’re rattling against each other.
My throat’s on fire, begging for one drop of alcohol, just one.
I even tell myself that no one is going to know. I beg myself to take a sip and when I almost throw away my phone and my good intentions and reach for that secret bottle I keep in the glove box, I hit dial.
I’m not sure if he’ll pick up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he won’t, but tonight, I’m not going to stop until he does.
I’m not going to stop until he does what I want him to do.
I’m ready to leave him a voicemail when I hear a click and his voice. “Hello?”
I grip the wheel tightly when I hear him. He sounds hesitant, unsure.
It throws me back in time, reminding me of when he was a kid. He’d come to my room in the middle of the night because he heard a noise or had a nightmare. And he’d tell me with this small, anxious voice, Dad, there’s someone in my closet.
He’d look at me with those big hazel eyes similar to mine and I could see complete trust in them. Trust that now that I’ve told my dad, everything is going to be fine. He’ll take care of everything.
“Dad?” he says again when I remain silent.
I unclench my jaw and make it move. “Brian, hey, kiddo.”
I close my eyes at kiddo.
It’s been ages since I called him that. He hates it so I’d use it to piss him off when he was being a smartass or to embarrass him in front of his friends.
“Hey,” he greets me.
I don’t know what to say after this. I’m completely drawing a blank.
“How are you, Dad?”
Apparently, he’s more articulate than me. Good thing.
I’ve always failed at this emotional crap.
“I…” I clear my throat and loosen my grip on the wheel. “I’m good. Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m fine, too.”
“Do you need anything?” I ask, slipping into the role that I know: of a provider. “Any money or something… something like that?”
“No, Dad. I’m okay. Yeah.”
“Okay. Good.” I swallow. “Good.”
I’m parked on the side of the road, thinking about how we got here. How we got to this fucked up place where we can’t talk to each other.
We’ve always been able to do that before. He’d always tell me everything and I’d listen. Of course, I knew he had his secrets; he’s a teenage boy. He’s going to have secrets from me but I knew what was going on in his life.
It’s always been us against the world.
How did I become my own father? Drunk and absent.
After growing up with him, I never even wanted a relationship, let alone a kid.
But I had one.
And when I held Brian in my arms for the first time, every little bit of softness and vulnerability inside me in the shape of a tiny human being, I made him a promise.
I promised that I’d always be there for him. That even though Cynthia – his mother – had left him, I’d always put him first.
So what happened?
“Where are you right now?” I ask after a few beats.
“Uh, California. We’re gonna stay here for a few weeks and then head back east.”
I nod, staring into the darkening sky. “How…” I scratch my forehead. “How has it been so far?”
“Good, yeah. It’s been a ton of fun.”
“I’m glad.”
“I actually have some photos on Facebook. I wanted to, uh, send them to you but…”
I chuckle, feeling an ache in my chest. “Yeah, I guess I better get on Facebook like the rest of the world, huh.”
This ache is different than the knife.
The knife is vicious, edgy, deadly even.
This is the ache for my child. My son.
He chuckles back; it’s awkward like everything between us now. “Yeah. You’re several decades behind, Dad.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“So what’s up, Dad?” he asks abruptly.
You can’t do this to Brian. I’m not going to watch while you hurt yourself and him more…