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Chapter Thirteen
Nate managed to avoid his father for a week, but things came to a head the night after his boat date with Kris. Skylar was out with friends, and Nate had stayed home to run lines for both the Oscar Bravo film and a few upcoming auditions.
He was reheating a leftover casserole in the microwave when Michael shuffled into the kitchen, wearing plaid pajama pants and a white NACHO AVERAGE DAD T-shirt that Skylar had gifted him as a joke for Father’s Day (in addition to treating him to dinner at his favorite Mexican restaurant).
Nate stiffened. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I woke up.” Michael shrugged, his voice raspier than usual. He’d kept to himself since his trip to the hospital, only venturing out of his room for food, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent as he surveyed his son.
Was hesober?
Nate hadn’t seen his father hit the bottle in, what, five, six days? But that didn’t mean shit. It was only a matter of time before alcoholics backslid, and he’d never been able to convince his father to quit and join AA. Hell, Michael wouldn’t even admit he had a problem, much less spill his guts to Alcoholics Anonymous.
“Great.” The microwave beeped, the sound loud and jarring in the tiny kitchen. Nate didn’t bother waiting before he yanked open the door and pulled out the steaming hot casserole. He winced when the plate burned his fingertips.
Fuck.He quickly dropped it onto the counter and ran his hand under a stream of cold water, eager for something to do other than stare at his father and wonder how the vibrant, doting dad from his childhood had ended up like this.
He understood Michael was hurting from his wife’s death. Of course he did. Michael’s wife was also Nate’smom,and Nate felt her absence in every inch of his soul. But if he, an eighteen-year-old at the time she passed, could pull his shit together, why hadn’t his father? Michael was older and supposed to be wiser. He should’ve stepped up and pulled his family through the darkest time of their lives.
Instead, he’d abdicated all responsibility and left his teenage son to pick up the pieces.
“Nate.” Michael shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “We should talk.”
“About what?” Nate couldn’t wait to get to his room, where he could lose himself in his scripts and count down the days until he saw Kris again. He wasn’t sure where their relationship stood, exactly, but he’d much rather figure that out than talk to his father, even if he and Kris had agreed not to put a label on things.
“About, ah, last week.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.” Nate wiped his hands on a dish towel and faced the elder Reynolds, his jaw flexing. “By last week, do you mean when I had to cut one of my shifts at the cafe short so I could run home and let the A/C repair guy in because that was the only time he could come and you were too out of it to hear the doorbell ring? Or do you mean missing another job interview because you didn’t know what day it was? Or, perhaps, you meant when you drank so much you almostdiedand your teenage daughter was the one who had to call 911, wondering if she was going to lose the only parent she’s got left? Not that you’ve done much parenting over the past five years.”
Michael’s face turned the color of the old, crumbling chalk.
“I’m trying,” he said, his voice trembling. “I know I messed up. I never, ever wanted Sky or you to see me like that. I haven’t touched a drink since—”
“Don’t.” Nate’s chest was so tight it was hard to breathe. “Don’t tell me you’ve quit until you join AA or rehab or stay sober for more than a month. Hell, I’d settle for two weeks. You’ve gotten our hopes up in the past, but I’m not falling for it again.”
“I mean it this time.” Michael looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. “When I was lying there in the hospital, I kept thinking of your mother and what she would say if she could see me now. And I know I haven’t been the best—”
“I can’t do this.” Nate shook his head. “You expect me to believe that after five years, you’re only now realizing Mom would’ve been horrified by what’s happened to you after she died? That’s BS. You’ve always known. But you’ve become too addicted to the bottle to care.”
Michael blanched, and a pinprick of guilt stabbed at Nate’s stomach. Okay, that had been beyond harsh, but it needed to be said. He’d held onto his resentment for so long that he was afraid it had become an inextricable part of himself, and it felt damn good to get some of it off his chest.
Plus, Michael needed the reality check. God knew Skylar wasn’t going to give it to him—and she shouldn’t, considering how young she was—and Nate had been enabling him for too long. But that trip to the hospital? That had opened his eyes.
If Michael didn’t start taking better care of himself, and soon, Nate and Skylar were going to end up orphans.
Then again, that wouldn’t be a huge change from the way things were. Michael was there physically, but he’d checked out mentally and emotionally a long time ago.
Nate yanked a paper towel from the roll above the sink and used it to cushion his tray as he stalked past his father and up the stairs.
Michael didn’t stop him.
There wasn’t much left to say.
* * *
If this wasGod’s idea of a joke, he had a shitty sense of humor.
Kris shifted in her seat and tried not to scream as Risa slid a plate of rosemary and garlic lamb roast and mashed potatoes in front of her. It smelled amazing, but her appetite was in milk carton territory. Aka lost and not yet found.
