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He watches me eat. “Why meet with me now?”
I swallow a bite of roast beef. “Things aren’t good at work. I’m close to being canned, and I’ve been wondering how you’re doing.” There are more truths than lies in there.
“Well, I’m good. Been out for a while now. Mistakes were made. Things are better now.” He gives me a warm, charming smile that reminds me ofbefore.Before he started using regularly. Before prison. I almost fall into it. Almost believe it.
“You’re not using?” I ask.
Things are better now.
How many times have I heard it? Hundreds? Thousands? Every day of my adolescent life?
He sniffs hard, looks around. “Maybe once since I’ve been back, but it’s different this time. I wanna help your mom when she gets out. I’m staying clean.”
He can’t look me in the eyes and say it.
I see him at twenty-two bent down to my eight-year-old height while I’m crying about Mom screaming an ear-splitting scream in the bedroom. She was hallucinating. Hadn’t slept in days. She sounded like she was being murdered.
“She’s fine,” he said. “She’s okay, buddy. Hey, look at me. Don’t cry.” He wiped my tears. “Are you a strong boy? Huh? Don’t cry. You’re aDonnelly.You remember that.” He messed my hair and smiled, one that faded of light the older I grew. “Let’s go get ice cream.”
He never took me to get ice cream. He got distracted at a cousin’s place and he accidentally left me there for two days. My mom cried about it.
And they both promised they’d quit using.
I’m clean now.
Things are better now.
It’s just a little bit.
Just one time.
Once more.
Tomorrow I’ll quit.
I have this under control.
Believe me.
At the booth, I say nothing to him until he focuses on me.
“What?” he snaps, then leans forward. “You don’t believe me? Honestly, do I look like I’m using? You should be able to tell.” He motions down his body and across his face like he’s John fucking Cena with the wrestling catchphraseyou can’t see me.
It almost makes me laugh, and I do get a good look at him. His face is clear of pock marks, just some old scars. Like the one beside his temple. His usual tick—scratching at his temple—isn’t apparent yet. Though, I’ve seen recovering meth addicts still have the same ticks. The repercussions of using can be long-lasting and permanent.
“You want to see bad? Go visit your cousin Kieran,” he says. “He can’t even remember what he ate yesterday. He stumbles over every other word, and that’snotwhat I want to see for your mom. We’ve been sober in prison. We still have time to beat this.” He lets out a strangled breath, thinking something over. “Meth, man…” He laughs a little like it’s a love-hate relationship, and for him, it probably is. “Better than sex. But you know that.”
I go rigid, the mic hot on my chest.
Did not want security to hear about me using meth.
“Nah, I don’t know what that’s like,” I say casually enough, and I pick up the soda with my cigarette hand.
My dad frowns.
“I was a virgin when you gave me meth, you know. Couldn’t exactly compare the two.”
His face contorts, and he shakes his head a thousand times. “I never gave you meth.”
