Henry
Friday morning, I email my guidance counselor and my Field Force rep to ask how a transfer would impact my post-graduation plan. Then I run six miles down the beach and six miles back, pondering the idea of staying in Sugar Bay through senior year.
Aside from the question she whispered the other night at the beach, Piper and I’ve sidestepped what I’ve been assuming was inevitable: saying goodbye at the end of this summer.
It never occurred to me that I could stay.
That maybe I should stay. I’m pretty sure Piper hasn’t thought of me in Sugar Bay beyond August either.
Now, I’m freaked about spooking her with the prospect of my looming presence.
When I get home, the apartment’s empty; Dad mentioned last night that he wanted to get to the restaurant before the lunch rush today.
I shower and down a sandwich, glad for the quiet, paging through an SAT study guide while standing at the kitchen counter.
I’m rinsing my plate when I hear a gritty cough, then a throaty groan coming from down the hall.
I nearly piss myself.
I turn off the water and move slowly, silently, out of the kitchen.
I pass my bathroom and my bedroom—both empty—before approaching Dad’s room at the end of the hall.
His door’s barely ajar. I consider finding a golf club or some other makeshift weapon, but I’m six two and can crank out seventy-five push-ups in two minutes.
If there’s an intruder in the apartment, I’ll hold my own or end up with a bullet in me.
I strain to listen…breathing, ragged and irregular.
“Hello?” I call.
Another groan.
Someone’s in my dad’s room.
I close the distance to his door and shove it open.
Dad’s on his stomach on top of the bedding, arms at awkward angles like he plummeted from a high window and landed just that way. He’s wearing what he left in last night to meet Tati. His breathing is open-mouthed and noisy, a circle of drool visible on the comforter. His hair’s all over the place.
What a fucking mess.
His shoes, on the other hand, sit neatly on the floor near the foot of the bed, laces looped up and over. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. The small bathroom trash can is positioned on the floor near his head. I highly doubt he had the forethought to put it there.
“Dad!” I say sharply.
He snorts awake, rolling over with effort, dragging a hand over his pallid face. “What time is it?”
“Like, noon.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Tell me you’re sick.”
He squints like the sunlight streaming through the blinds burns his retinas. “I’m sick.”
“Bullshit.”
“I think I’m supposed to be at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said last night. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to get yourself there, though.”
He manages to sit up. He looks like a Weeble, these teetering egg-shaped toys my mom played with when she was little and saved to share with me.
He groans again. “I’ll be all right. Just need a shower. And some hair of the dog.”
I lean against the doorjamb. I have no idea what he means by hair of the dog. His eyes fall closed as he seesaws on the mattress, using his hands to brace himself on either side.
“Are you going to throw up?”
He hauls his eyes open, swallowing thickly, considering the trash can. “I think I’m good.”
He gets up like a man who hasn’t been on his feet in months, then hobbles into the bathroom. The door shuts, the shower powers on, and I leave him to it.
I don’t understand people who forfeit control this way.
It used to drive me crazy when Whitney would call late at night, drunk with her friends.
She’d go on about how much she loved me, her words sluggish, too syrupy to be sincere.
All I ever wanted was to get off the phone because that girl—loose-tongued and sappy—wasn’t who I’d signed on for.
Dad overdoing it is even worse. He’s too old to be getting so sloshed he’s gonna feel like shit the next day.
In the kitchen, I text Piper:
My dad’s nursing a wicked hangover. Tati too?
She responds after a few minutes.
No idea.
It has to have been Tati who brought Dad home. She must’ve gotten him into bed. She took off his shoes and made sure he had something to heave into. For all the crap Piper talks about her sister, she’s not so bad. Drunk Davis isn’t for the weak of heart. Tati stepped up.
I shoot Piper another text, telling her I’ll come by tonight, then set my phone on the countertop as Dad comes lumbering in. He looks human, more or less. He opens the fridge, plucks a Corona off the shelf, and pops the top with his trusty bottle opener.
I watch, my jaw unhinged. “Hair of the dog?”
“Yeah,” he says, followed by a weak laugh. “Quickest way to cure a hangover.” He pulls peanut butter out of the pantry, grabs a spoon, and scoops out a huge dollop. He devours it. “Second-quickest way to cure a hangover,” he says, his mouth sticking and smacking. “Greasy bacon works too.”
“Gross.”
“You’ll thank me one day.”
I shake my head—I can’t believe these are the life lessons he’s imparting to me.
“I’m going to Piper’s later,” I tell him. “You going in to work?”
He checks the time. “In a while.”
“What about Tati? Are you seeing her tonight?”
He blinks, brows knitting together.
“Dad, what?”
“Last night…” He wades out of his haze. “I think I pissed her off.”
“How?” I ask with trepidation.
“Hard to say, buddy. Hasn’t all come back to me yet.” He laughs this off, like getting so tanked that you have little recollection of the night before is hysterical.
“You might want to give her a call,” I suggest, thinking of Piper’s message. There’s not a lot of nuance in texts, but she didn’t seem amused by my wicked hangover observation.
“I’ll do that.” Dad double-dips himself another scoop of peanut butter, then parks himself on a stool. He’s still got bags under his eyes, and despite his shower, I swear to god I can smell booze leaching from his pores.
“I’m gonna go out for a while,” I tell him, heading out of the kitchen.
I’ve got nowhere to be, but if I have to look at him slurping peanut butter off a spoon like an anteater for another second, I’ll lose my shit.
I feel like telling him how uncool it was, walking into his room midday and seeing him bedraggled and incoherent.
He’ll say I have a stick up my ass and everything’s fine.
He’ll toss back his Corona and go on about how he knows what he’s doing, he’s got a handle on it.
He’s Davis Walker, for fuck’s sake.
I could call my mom. Maybe I should call my mom.
But she’ll buy me a one-way ticket back to Spokane, scheduled to depart tonight, using her emergency credit card because this is not a purchase she’s budgeted for.
As far as she’s concerned, Davis is a decent man and a good dad, but she won’t let me stay with him if she thinks his drinking’s out of control.
I’m not ready to leave Sugar Bay.
I spend the afternoon cruising the pier, edgy and overwhelmed.