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But maybe it will be better this time. You don’t know unless you try.
Me: I need to finish getting dinner ready, but more than anything, I need to think about things.
I don’t care if he thinks it’s sudden, cutting off the conversation like that. It’s much better to end things abruptly than to let Dad see how flushed and shaky I am, thanks to this conversation. I’ll think about it all later when I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts. A quick splash of cold water on my cheeks helps cool me off, and a few deep breaths slow my racing pulse. Not that it matters once I hear Dad’s key in the lock of the front door. Right away, I get that sick feeling in my stomach, like I'm at the top of a roller coaster's highest point and about to go over the edge. Since when do I feel that way about my own father?
Since he became so damn unpredictable.
That's the simple answer. Right now, he's rumpled, messy. His button-down shirt is a little wrinkled, and his hair could use a combing. At least he's here and can walk a straight line, so I hope that means he's sober. I think he's been stopping at the bar every night rather than doing his drinking here, in front of me.
“Just in time,” I chirp from the kitchen as I open the oven door. “Meatloaf’s ready.”
“Smells good.” Almost like he’s surprised. I force myself to smile through it.
“You've been putting in some long hours lately. Should I be worried?” Does it sound like I'm teasing? I hope so, even though I'm not. I hate feeling like I'm walking on eggshells, but eventually, the truth has to come out.
“Why would you have to worry about me?”
“All these late nights and early mornings. You’ve been so scarce lately–of course, I’m going to worry about you.” I set down the pan and remove the potholders from my trembling hands. “Are you sure you're not overdoing it with your investigation?”
“I knew there had to be a reason for you to do this.” He waves a hand over the table I so carefully set. “What's this, an intervention? Do you think I'm taking this too far, too?”
Too? It makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle, that word. “Why? Am I not the only one who knows?”
He steps beside me, his eyes stern, and now I can smell the liquor on his breath. Jesus Christ. It's six-thirty, and he's been drinking already. “You will not do this. You don't get to ambush me in my own home. Did you think making me dinner would change things?”
I set the meatloaf down in the center of the table before turning to him, hands on my hips. “What is with all the anger? What did I do to you? All I care about is you, and whether you're taking care of yourself. Excuse me if I'm a little concerned, but you've given me more than enough reasons to worry. Look at yourself. I can smell the liquor on your breath. Do you realize that? What is going on?”
A brief flash of shame crosses his face, but his expression soon hardens. “I thought I made it clear enough already. My entire goddamn life, all of it revolves around this. Making that bastard pay for what he did to us. Why can’t you see that everything I do is for you?”
“Doing what?” I demand, throwing my hands into the air. “Staying out until all hours of the night and getting drunk? How is that supposed to help me in any way? If it does anything, it makes me worry more.”
He slams himself into his chair, snickering. “You can't be too worried.”
“What does that mean?”
He purses his lips and lifts his brows, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “If you’re that concerned, why are you going behind my back and looking at apartments?”
Oh, my God. That's what this is about. I’m not sure how he knows anything. Nevertheless, he is a detective. I guess he has his ways.
“Since when was it ever a secret that I would find an apartment and move out?” I finish putting the mashed potatoes in a bowl and leave them on the table, even though my appetite is now gone. I'm too busy looking back over my actions, trying to figure out what clues I dropped along the way. It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not like I was going to live here forever.
“Ever heard of being honest?”
“How can I be honest with you when you’re never here? And since when is your daughter, an adult and a college graduate with a good job and a steady income, not allowed to find a place of her own to live in? Do you realize how many parents wish they could be in your shoes? Never once have I leeched off you. Never once have I expected you to do anything for me. I would think you'd want me to flap my wings and leave the nest.”
