Dreams of 18(46)

Stupid, drunken mistake.

His breathing has gone heavy. Agitated.

“How do you know?” he asks. “How do you know it was a mistake? She tell you that?”

I go silent, words clamming up in my throat.

But Brian breaks the tense silence. “How is it that you call me after months, Dad, and you ask me to talk to her?”

I bump my head against the headrest. I haven’t been keeping in touch. That’s true. Initially, that’s what he wanted. We’d occasionally text but that was all. I offered to visit him once, but he refused.

And I’m ashamed to say that I was relieved.

I didn’t know how to talk to him. Every time I thought about picking up the phone and calling him, his words from that night would run through my mind. All of them true, all of them making me even more ashamed and guilty. Disgusted with myself.

So I drank and drank until I forgot them. Until I forgot her.

But I should’ve tried harder.

I should’ve gotten my shit together and behaved like a responsible parent. At the very least, I would’ve known what he’s been doing to her.

How he’s been punishing her all this time and I’ve been so checked out from the world that I had zero clue about it.

“I know I haven’t been the best of dads. I haven’t been keeping in touch and –”

“But have you been keeping in touch with her, Dad?” His voice sounds angry now.

Just like that, I get a flashback from ten months ago.

Do you like her, Dad? Is that what’s going on? You want her? You want my best friend? Answer me.

Maybe I should’ve given him the answer he wanted.

Fisting my hand, I say, “Just fucking call her.”

“You have, haven’t you?” He scoffs again. “Is that how you know that she made a mistake? What, do you call her? Do you talk to her on the phone? Text with her? She tells you things?”

I say in a stern voice, sterner than I want it to be, “Brian, do the right thing. I thought you guys were okay. I thought you’d talked things out and everything was fine now. But it isn’t. And not to mention, you’re dating her sister. Fucking do the right thing, Bri, all right? Call her and talk to her. The rest doesn’t matter.”

His laughter is scathing, laced with anger. “Like you could talk, Dad. You could talk about doing the right thing. You betray me. You want the girl that I wanted, and now you’re asking me to patch things up. Just like that. What does that mean?”

I grit my teeth again. I clench my eyes shut and dig my fist on my thigh. “It means you call her. That’s what it means. Period. You wanted to ask her out, right? She was your best friend. Is this how you treat her? I told you she made a mistake. It’s time to move on, okay? You want to hate me, go right ahead. I should’ve been a better father. I should’ve known your feelings about her but I didn’t. I fucked up. You can hate me all you want but you’re calling her. You’re calling her and you’re apologizing. I didn’t say anything about Fiona before because I knew you were angry. I knew you were hurting. I knew you needed your space but this has gone on long enough, you understand? You punishing her and not talking to her has gone on long enough. I’m not going to ask you again. You know you’ve hurt her. You know that. So just make this right.”

“You know what, Dad, I gotta go. I can’t do this right now.”

He hangs up then, and I throw my phone across the seat.

I bury my hands in my hair and make a fist and pull. Then, I smack the wheel over and over.

Do you like her, Dad? You want her?

I wish I had lied.

I wish I had said no to that question ten months ago.

I wish I didn’t want my son’s best friend – the girl he secretly liked.





Detoxing is so not fun.

I know.

I’ve gone through it myself. When they put me in Heartstone, they gave me all kinds of medications, cocktails of medications. They all had side effects. Some worked, some didn’t. So they’d wean me off and I’d go through withdrawals. I’d go through the shaking, the shivering, the night sweats, night chills, vomiting and all the fun stuff.

Four days ago, I cried in front of him for the first time and he left. Hours later, he came back from wherever he’d gone. The entire time I’d been alone in the cabin waiting for him, I’d cleaned up a little. I threw away the trash, did the dishes, wiped down the kitchen counters. The basic stuff.

He took it in with a blank face and a silence that I had to break.

“I just, uh, tried to make it better…” I trailed off when he shifted his eyes over to me before adding on a whisper, “For you.”

He stared at me with an intensity that burned my skin and made it bloom a pretty red color. An intensity that I’m still feeling four days later.

I thought he’d say something, something rude or scathing or something about where he went and what he did. Why he practically ran away when he saw my tears.

Because I still think he ran away. I still have this feeling that he couldn’t see me cry.

Which has to be the most ridiculous thing in this whole world, right?

Why would he care? He hates me.

Anyway, all he did was walk toward me with a purpose until I became breathless and he handed me a bottle of Jack Daniels.