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But truthfully, that’s not what I want, because I don’t want him making room for me and my feelings when that’s not what he wants. I don’t want him acting like boyfriend material when he really prefers to keep things casual. That wouldn’t be organic and it’s going to mean eventual resentment. He told me he couldn’t handle things because of his complicated life and I agreed to it. I’m not going to force it now - that would undoubtedly end in heartache.
Maybe not now, but eventually he’d be ready for something real. The problem is that he’s only here another month or two anyway before he goes back to California and his boat and his pool and whatever waits for him back there. Maybe that girl having his baby.
I haven’t asked Carly about that and I won’t.
She’s been calling or texting daily, being a good friend, though being really bossy and refusing to take the money I paid back, first telling me to make sure I’m on my feet and then trying to say it’s a gift.
Honestly, I didn’t mean for her to catch wind that things with me and Austin were fucked up. She just caught me in a moment. She asked if he and I were getting along, said she got the impression from him the other week that something might be blossoming, and I burst into tears.
Last night was a shit night. I had three of dad’s bar buddies here getting drunk with him, smoking cigars and cigarettes in the house. They’d taken him to the bar when I was in the kitchen making more Rice Krispie squares for my father to bribe him into eating some broccoli. It worked the other day. Those treats always seemed to cheer him up, ever since I was ten and made my first batch by following the recipe on the cereal box. While I was melting marshmallows, they just snuck him out like it was a jailbreak and then brought the party back here a couple hours later.
I waded through a cloud of stink and kicked them all out and my father tried to kick me out again. It’s the third time since I’ve been here that he’s looked me in the eye and told me to leave. It’s also the third time I’ve told him no. It’s weird saying no to a man I was raised to never disagree with. He doesn’t like it, but that’s too bad.
He still thinks of me as this little kid, this thorn in his side, only instead of being another mouth to feed and someone who he occasionally had to sign forms for, show up to the occasional teacher interview or shell out for shoes and clothes and the occasional dose of antibiotics or some vaccination or another.
I’m now the Fun Police, trying to make him eat vegetables that aren’t breaded and deep fried, trying to get him to stop smoking and boozing, and not letting him eat ten pudding cups a day. Instead, I’m eating them. Because a) I’m sad and b) he’s a fusspot who won’t eat half the ones I bought him because they’re not the right brand.
He’s not listening to me and I’m ready to throw in the towel and leave. But I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll be dead in a year or less.
I’ve spent hours cleaning this place that’s covered in a thick film of dust, grime, and tobacco smoke. It needs to be gutted and built back up from the studs.
The yard has nothing growing, the driveway is covered in oil stains and potholes. There are shingles falling off the roof, mold on the ceiling of Shane’s old room, and the front porch is ready to cave in.
And he doesn’t care. All his cares revolve around getting drunk, eating trashy bar food when he’s out or TV dinners and drinking and smoking when he’s home in front of the TV.
I’ve thrown out newspapers from two years ago.
I’m exhausted. And emotional.
The only thing I’ve done just for myself is go out once for coffee the other morning with Andrew and that wasn’t even entirely for myself because he asked me to run through his lines. Other than that, I went to my writer’s workshop and afterwards I had a quick coffee with Raven.
Otherwise, every free moment is looking after Dad, looking after Austin’s stuff (which hasn’t been that bad, but the commute has been a pain and a half), and trying to chase down lawyers and doctors and news about Shane in between.
My brother’s lawyer is either insanely overworked or extremely lazy and the doctor currently looking after him doesn’t seem any better.
“I don’t need you babysitting me, girl,” Dad shouts as I lock the door after his friends go. “I’m a grown man and if I wanna eat fries ‘n wings for dinner and chase ‘em down with Jack ‘n Coke then that’s what I’m gonna do. I paid for this house and everything in it with my own blood ‘n sweat and if I wanna put salt on my meat and eat three puddin’ cups, I have that right. You wanna stay here, this is my house and my fuckin’ rules and that includes me havin’ whoever I want over and me decidin’ what they get to do while they’re here.”
