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The humor falls flat. Mostly because he stays serious.
“It’s never easy digging through a shitty past that you’d rather forget,” Lo says. “And sometimes it gets easier. Other days, it feels like you’re back there. You’re playing roulette, hoping not to hit that bad number with that bad memory, and truth be told, I hate that I’m the goddamn dealer, hoping you land on it. But that’s where we’re at.”
I slowly nod, my chest constricted, even if I’m slouched in the chair, looking relaxed. “I’m not some broken toy.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do.
“Great.” His voice is sharp. “Because I’m not trying to fix you.”
I nod again.
Same Goal:Make Loren Hale Like Me…Then Make Him My Best Friend—it’s going alright. Room for improvement. Seeing as how I had sex with his daughter this morning, broke another promise to him, I should be carrying a guilt-sized baby on my shoulder.
But I’m not burdening myself with remorse. Because I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Not even to appease him.
We eat our takeout burritos for a few minutes. After I wash down the tender steak with a swig of water, I sit more upright and say, “He was high. My dad.”
“Meth?” Lo peels more foil, listening closely.
“Yeah.” I wipe my mouth with my bicep. “That’s why he forgot to take me to the zoo. That’s why he forgot a lot about me, most of the time. It’s not like we had the money to even go, anyway. I doubt we would’ve ended up there.”
“Did you see him high a lot?” Lo wonders.
“Enough,” I answer vaguely.
Lo swallows a bite, then sips some water, his brows furrowing before he asks, “Was he different when he used?”
I glance at the wall, the memories foggy. Not where I question their existence or anything. I know what they are. I just choose not to go into that haze. What for?
These days, the answer is so vibrant, so clear:For everything.
For her.
Lo arches forward again, elbows on his desk. He wipes his hands on a napkin and stacks some drafts of comics in a pile. “My dad was an asshole when he was drunk,” he suddenly tells me. “Which was all the time. He was also a shit father, and when he stopped drinking, he tried to be a better dad—but he was still an asshole. Depending on who you ask, he never became a better man.”
“You think he did?” I wonder.
Lo looks far away now. “Yeah, I do.” He forces a half-smile. “But I’m also the bastard who makes excuses for him, so you’re asking the wrong Jonathan Hale offspring.”
“Nah.” I wad up a napkin, leaning back in my chair. “You’re the only one I would’ve asked.”
“Because I lived with him the longest,” Lo guesses.
“Because you’re Luna’s dad.” I stare up at the black-painted ceiling. “You wanna know what my dad was like on meth?” I pause. I’m ten, trying to do homework on the floor. There’s yelling in the kitchen over their stash being depleted and someone named Lionel.
He’s out to get us.
He snuck in here this morning.
Get Paul outta here. He’ll kill him.
Lionel didn’t exist.
He was my mom’s delusion that became my dad’s.
I’m eleven, and they’re starting to accuse me of stealing their shit, selling the drugs and pocketing the money for myself. My mom is raiding my closet and turning my pockets inside-out.
“Paranoid,” I tell Lo. I’m twelve, and my dad hasn’t slept in days. He’s gripping my shoulders, shaking me and warning me of shadow people. They’re in the apartment. Be careful. “Erratic.”
I’m fourteen and we’re out of cash. They’re going through withdrawals, and my dad is screaming at the top of his lungs. Like I’m pestilence and the fucking plague. Not doing enough to help. Not pulling my weight.
