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The SUV drives away, and then he’s alone in the driveway, his hands over his face. He’s wearing his soft clothes, the ones he wears when everything irritates him, and he doesn’t uncover his face when I get close.
“Dad.” I tug at his wrist. His hands don’t move. “Daddy.”
He drops his hands to look at me, and I get the shock of my life.
He’s crying.
I can remember him crying maybe…five or six times in my entire life, and most of those happened when I was very young. I assumed he was stopping it when his shoulders shook, but he hasn’t.
My heart dies a little more.
Because he doesn’t cry like a normal person. I don’t think he actuallyhasa crying-face. Tears just run down his cheeks, and he blinks and blinks, but it doesn’t do anything to stop them.
I feel like a mega-asshole, because I also didn’t notice what my mom meant bytiredbefore. The sun was too bright, and her hair was in my face, and I felt extremely witnessed by a crowd in a way that I’ve avoided for years. My parents have flown out to visit me a handful of times since I moved to California, and only when I felt confident enough to let them, and that…
That was a mistake.
Because my dad doesn’t looktired,he looks too thin, too pale, too haunted. That’s saying something, because neither of us spend very long in the sun.
You should have told me,I want to say, but I know where that conversation will go. He wouldn’t have said a word. He’d have died of worrying about me before he made me feel the slightest pressure to move home.
“Daddy.” My voice shakes. It’s not what I was going for, but I can’t help it. Not now that the pressure is getting worse and I don’t want him to have to carry me inside and perish from stress in front of everyone. “I asked Hercules to do it. He wouldn’t have touched me otherwise.”
His eyes go to the bruise, and for the very first time in my entire life, his expression matches the tears. My dad’s forehead creases, and his eyebrows draw together, and his eyes get wider.
Idon’tflinch. I don’t say anything else. I don’t rush to give more details.
I didn’t lie. I wouldn’t. He’ll know that, in…
In a minute.
His eyes come back to mine.
It hurts to be out here now. Not real pain, not yet, only the precursor. My brain is screwed up. All the nightmares and the seizures and the cross-country flight have done some damage. They’ve at least depleted some crucial energy.
“Daddy…”
“Okay.”
“If you want to go in, we can talk about—what?”
“Okay. I heard you.”
“So you’re…not mad?”
He smiles, more tears sliding out of his eyes at the same time, and I’m so relieved I almost fall over. Not that I thought hewouldbe mad at me. I didn’t refrain from sleeping with any guys before Hercules because my dad gave the impression that I wasn’t in charge of my body. I’m not even sure I meant the wordmad.I don’t want him to be disappointed because I like teeth marks and bruises in addition to…everything else.
“No, I’m not mad.” He swipes both palms over his face, which isn’t enough to banish the tears. “I’m tired.”
“Oh my God!” I burst out laughing. “You’re such a liar. You look terrible. Why didn’t you tell me to come home if you were going to worry yourself sick?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you needed help?”
“I don’t! I didn’t. I didn’t need anything.”
“Checkmate.”
“You did not justcheckmateme, Dad. We don’t even play chess.”
