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The self-loathing is new. I’ve never understood how anyone could resent themselves until now. But hating my fucked-up life is my new mantra.
I peaked at twenty-nine. Now life is all fucking downhill from here.
“What did he say?” Pop points at my knuckles wrapped around the phone leached of all color.
“IR. Pay cut. All the resources to help me get back. Blah, blah, blah.”
Pop sighs and takes a seat on the sofa across from me. “Real talk, Layton. What do you want?”
I look at him incredulously, tamping back the emotion that threatens.I don’t know, Pop. My life back. My job back. To stand without pain spearing through me.
“Son, I asked you a question.”
I look around my apartment. My pointless fireplace in a city that never gets below sixty-eight degrees, floor-to-ceiling windows, low modern furniture. I look anywhere but into his eyes.
When I meet his gaze again, my voice is flat and defeat is audible. “My life back.”
He says nothing. We both know that’s an impossibility. Not an improbability I can fight my way through. It’s not something that time in the gym and good habits can accomplish.
Impossible. Not an option on the table anymore.
“You sure you don’t want to come home for your therapy?”
“Positive.”
“It would do you some good to get out of the city and get some fresh air in your lungs. You know the family would love to see you.”
“I know. But my doctors are here.”
“We have doctors in Texas, you know.”
I don’t roll my eyes at my old man. I respect him more than I’ve ever told him. He’s just trying to help, but my answer isn’t going to change. And right now, the idea of people rallying around me in my weak and broken state makes me want to scream.
“I know, Pop. I’ll be fine.”
I almost add that I’ll come home for Father’s Day, but I know better than to make a promise I plan to break.
The knowing look I see in Pop’s eyes will haunt me until the day I die. He knows I’m lying to him.
He starts to speak but refrains, shaking his head. He stares at his hands. His wedding ring is still lodged on his finger, old and scratched. The only time I’ve ever seen him not wearing it was when he was in the hospital in October and the fluids made him swell. It was back in place before he was discharged.
“Don’t know that I believe that right now.” His voice is quiet as he studies his fingers. “Need to know that my kids are going to be okay. And you—” He stops and holds my eyes. “You’ve always been independent. You’ve always been driven. My son with his eyes on the prize. You’ve always been your mom’s. Emilia would know what to do right now, but I’m at a loss.” He rubs an eye with his thumb. “How do I help you, Layton? I don’t know what to do.”
I’m floored. I’ve seen my old man this vulnerable only once, and it was last March when our world crumbled. Otherwise, never.
“I don’t either.” My words are quiet. The anger is gone, giving way to defeat.
I stand, sucking in a breath from the cramping in my back from the movement and hobble away. The clicking of the walker and the sharp exhales through my nose make a symphony of anguish that I wish I could drown out.
I enter my guest room—my room—and lower onto the bed, cursing under my breath at what effort it takes and how weak I am after expending the energy.
I lie back, only to realize I left the light on and the door open. Fuck it. It’s not worth the torture to my body to rectify either.
I fake sleep until I hear Pop wander back upstairs. I find the pill the nurses gave me to help me sleep and I don’t even bother to swallow it. I crush it between my teeth, tasting the bitter, metallic powder, and wait for oblivion.
TWENTY
LIMP FISH
