Be a Doll(105)

I wasn’t a heavy drinker and while I could hold my liquor, I was past my limit. I had no doubt as to my incapacity to stay upright if I went to my feet right now and decided to walk in a straight line.

The intercom buzzed loudly, piercing through my alcohol fueled fog.

“Shit,’’ I groaned and rubbed at my eyes before hissing myself to my feet, swaying a bit before I found enough equilibrium to start walking just as the intercom buzzed once again. “I’m coming.’’

I braced myself against the wall and pushed the intercom button. “What?’’ My voice gurgled, but I didn’t care. It was Saturday afternoon, if I wanted to be fucked up on a Saturday afternoon I could very well do it without having to hide it for whatever stupid reason.

“Sir, there’s a Mr. Grimes asking to come up.’’

I blinked slowly, mouth twisting up in a sinister smirk that held no humor or sympathy. “Let him up.’’ I pushed back from the wall and unlocked the front door, leaving it ajar for my father as I tread back to the couch, going carefully as to not fall face first and add to my pain, a physical one from a drunken fall, that would be the epitome of pathetic.

As my ass landed on the couch back where I had been sitting, I cursed myself for not having more bourbon here. I had bottles of wine in the wine cellar in the kitchen, but somehow the idea of wine didn’t appeal to me. This celebration called for hard liquor.

The front door squeaked as the familiar sound of my father’s dress shoes on the floor reached me. I stared at the entry hall when he closed the door and turned to look for me, quickly locating my slouched form on the couch.

From here my vision was too blurry and dancing to fully appreciate the look on my father’s face as he realized that I was drunk in the middle of the afternoon, but I saw enough of him to perceive the condemnation.

“It looks like I can’t offer you a bourbon,’’ I mumbled, waving at the empty carafe on the coffee table as my father approached slowly, his steps seemingly hesitant, but for all I knew it could very well be my brain too slow to catch up.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,’’ he said, sitting in the armchair close by.

I stared at him, squinting in the light coming through the window and finally saw the frown on his face and the way his lips pursed. Nothing new there. At least he was looking at me straight for once instead of trying to look through me as if looking at his own fucking son was too difficult or disappointing.

“This is my apartment,’’ I replied and waved around, swaying a bit more on the couch before I decided to lean my head against the back, still turned on the side to keep my father in my line of sight. “What are you doing here?’’

“Your mother said—‘’

“Of course it’s Mom,’’ I cut in, my voice louder suddenly as I fought off a smile that made my insides twist and my skin crawl. “You wouldn’t visit here unless Mom put you up to it.’’

“Your mother didn’t put me up to it,’’ he retorted, his frown deeper. “And sit straighter, damn it.’’

My hands clenched in my lap as I glared at him, but still, I sat straighter, pushing through the slight nausea hitting me and the dizzy spell making my head throb, a sure sign that my buzz would be short lived. “Happy? No, don’t answer that. I know you could never be satisfied with anything I do.’’ I raked a hand over my beard and took in the disgruntled look on my father’s face, zeroing on the deep lines in his forehead and around his eyes.

He looked away then, but not quickly enough that I didn’t see the pain on his face. “I’m not here to talk about me, Mathis.’’

“Then what? Are you here to gloat now that Lila isn’t here anymore?’’ I pushed on, my voice rising with anger as I remembered the dinner during which he disrespected her and me both, or when I heard about his visit to my wife. “You can have a fucking party now. Pop the Dom Perignon, Dad.’’

Instead of biting back, he shook his head and stared at me again. I couldn’t read his face this time around because I didn’t know what I saw there. We didn’t work like that together. I either saw pain or anger, most often distance and disdain when directed my way.

“You love this woman, don’t you?’’

“Her name is Lila,’’ I gritted and stood up on unsteady feet, making my way to the shelf near the TV where I kept a picture of me and Max together. I stared at it without really seeing it. “Her name is Lila and…’’

“You’re in love with her. Your mother told me.’’

“Of course she did,’’ I mumbled and kept my back to my father. The last time we had anything resembling a heart to heart chat was when I was thirteen before summer break and he talked to me about girls and sex because he was worried I was growing up too fast in comparison to Max. Life had a funny way of playing with memories and twisting them around.

“She’s very worried about you and I see why,’’ he said, voice poised without the usual cold inflection I was so used to.

“Don’t pretend you care, Dad.’’ I turned around and walked to the windows, staring outside to the view of Central Park, the kind of view I remembered Max telling me he wanted when he grew up and worked with Dad in the family company. I put my hands flat on the glass, leaning against it. “We both know the truth even if we’ve never addressed it.’’