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This is a man full of errors.
A weak man.
It’s strange to finally realize that about someone you once thought was invincible.
“Come on in. I made a plate for you,” he says, putting his arm into the house to guide me in. He knew I was coming. He knew I wouldn’t just shy away.
Good.
Ten minutes later, we’re both sitting at the dining room table. It’s just my dad and me staring at each other, dinners cooling quickly in front of us.
It’s eerily similar to what happened a year ago, and part of me wonders if there will ever be a time when I can sit here again and eat a meal without remembering who my dad is.
Who hereallyis, beneath all of the pomp and circumstance.
“Are we going to talk about this?” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. I’m not hungry anyway,
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the same way he did when I was a kid and I’d spot him and Mom having arguments in hushed tones.
“It’s no big deal, Lola.”
“It’s no big deal?” I say, and my voice is strangely far away, detached.
“It’s not.”
“Johnny Vitale came to my bakery, giving whispered threats to me in broad fucking daylight,” I say.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion, Lola. He didn’t—”
“Dad, he gave me this!” I shout, lifting an arm to show the angry flesh, skin mottled beneath. It will look worse tomorrow. My skin is fair and always shows bruises brightly.
My dad’s eyes lock on my battle wound, going wide.
“Lola, I—”
“He said I was to give himmoney.”
“He—”
“And he saidyou told him I was good for it!”I say, shouting now because each time that part crosses my mind, each time I think about what that means, my body seems to float in a sea of chaos for a moment.
“But you—”
“I said I was done! I said I was out of this fucking shit.” He blinks then looks to his plate, fork moving around peas like he’s a petulant child who doesn’t want to continue a conversation where he knows he’s at fault.
“How much, Dad?” I ask, my voice strained.
I don’t know if I want this answer.
He doesn’t give it to me either way.
“Dad.”
Still nothing, his face pointed downward. This has to be worse than I anticipated.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“How much, Dad!?” I shout, my voice hoarse.
