Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
What am I saying we for? I’m not in a frat anymore.
Anyway, I’ll find someone else to fuck around with and get Dax off my brain.
But…I know it won’t be that easy.
When class ends, I pull my cell out and see a missed call from Dad. No voicemail or text. Anxiety pulses through me as my mind races back… “It’s about your mom.” My throat constricts, my skin pricking with sensation.
I rush out of class, calling him as I head down the hall.
Answer…answer, fuck it.
Because of that one call, every time after, I fear he’ll have some more terrible news to share with me.
It’s probably fine. It usually is.
But every muscle’s so tight, my breathing erratic.
“Hi, buddy,” Dad answers in that playful tone that makes me want to lose it. Not just because of how worried he got me, but how dare he fucking sound so playful after what happened to her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was calling to check in. It’s been like a week since we talked.”
“What have I said about texting or leaving a message?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. It slipped my mind. I figured you might be able to hit me back between classes. I’m sorry. Is something wrong?”
What a dumbass question for him to ask.
“Nope,” I lie.
“How are classes going?”
I take a deep breath, summoning the strength to chill the fuck out. After all, I don’t have a problem talking to Dad. I love him. I do. And I’m sure if I wasn’t already stressed about Dax ditching class today, I wouldn’t be this frustrated.
“Fine. I just got out of Medieval Art History.” I spit that out without thinking, but I should have because I can hear his disapproval in the way he breathes. He doesn’t even have to offer his usual, “Maybe you should consider trying something else. You were so great at math. Wouldn’t you be more interested in accounting?”
“That’s nice,” he forces out.
Time for a subject change. “How about you?”
“Oh, the usual. Wrestling around corporate bureaucracy. The boring stuff that nobody wants to do but that makes a lot of money.”
Hopefully that’s the most he’ll push to remind me there are better careers out there, in his opinion. I’m half tempted to tell him how much I’ve got in my bank account because of what he thinks is a dumb hobby, but I bite my tongue. The only thing worse than Chipper Dad is Hurt Dad. That’s something I can’t bear to deal with.
“You planning to go out this weekend?” he asks.
“Probably.”
“Just keep out of trouble.”
Again, he doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—just like we didn’t talk about Mom after she killed herself. Maybe that’s why I can’t keep quiet. “What do you mean?”
“Have a good time, but I’d rather not get a call from you at the police station.” He snickers in that way he does when he’s being awkward.
He doesn’t know what really happened that night. That I wasn’t the one, just took the fall, but I’ve accepted that means I might as well have done it to everyone, including my dad, who should know me well enough to know better.
I want to believe Mom would have known, but who knows?
“Have you, um, talked to any therapists?” he asks.
I grunt, not replying right away because I don’t want to lie.
He sighs…oh, the sigh of my father’s disapproval burns like acid on my chest. “Miles, we talked about this. I handled everything after you got in trouble, and you said you would talk to someone.”
“About just this?” I press.
If he wants to go there, then let’s go there.
He hesitates. “I think you probably have a lot of things on your mind.”
Fucking say it, Dad. Say I’m probably fucked up for being a kid whose mom killed herself and whose dad fucking ditched him to go to a mental hospital, being abandoned by both his parents at once. I hate myself for even thinking it—I know neither of them could help it. That they both must’ve been in so much pain to get to that point, but I can’t help this rage that bubbles up whenever I think about it. Angry as I can get, it’s never something I want to put on him. I keep it bound up in me with all the rest of this shit.
“Now that I think about it, I do have a meeting coming up,” he says.
Yeah, fucking right.
“I’ll be around later if you’re free,” he adds.
For obvious reasons, I don’t ever believe him when he tells me he’ll be around.
“Sure thing, Dad.”
“Love you.”
I do love my father, but I can’t bring myself to say it back. I hang up, the tension steadily rising within me as my mind flashes back to the day before, Mom smiling and laughing with me, leading me to believe everything was fine.
I’m fucking pissed at Dad for bringing all this to the surface, and now that it’s shown its ugly face, I can’t push it back down like I usually do. And I’m pissed at Dax too. For a few moments, he was the cure I could have turned to, but for whatever reason, he probably doesn’t even want to see me again.