Chapter 33
Miles
Y ou don’t have to do this.
You could leave right now.
I sit in my parked car, in Dad’s driveway. I texted him earlier to let him know I’d be coming by, which surprised him, but he didn’t have other plans and even offered to get some Asian fusion for dinner. That’s so Dad, pretending everything is A-OK and that dropping by is totally normal.
It’s a beautiful home. Two stories, six bedrooms. A mix of siding and stone on the front—the siding having gotten a fresh coat of paint since my last visit.
The yard is landscaped, with gardeners tending to it weekly to make sure all the bushes and hedges look picture perfect.
No one would suspect the darkness that lies in our past, how we came to this place as a sanctuary after losing Mom, after Dad came back.
This beautiful house is another reminder that we can’t face anything. Since Dad couldn’t stay in my childhood home after what happened, instead, he uprooted my life, moved us to Roswell, away from all my friends and the family close to us, to live in a place that wouldn’t remind us of her.
Only it does.
It was kind of Dax to offer to come with me, but that felt like I’d be ganging up on Dad, and also, after everything Dax has been through, I don’t want him to take on my family shit too. Not that he’d mind or give a fuck about how it affected him, but this is my bullet to take.
As I brace myself to push through this, even though Dax isn’t here, I can hear him saying, Deep breaths . It’s the only reason I haven’t backed out of the driveway and headed back to Peachtree Springs.
I take another deep breath, then get out of the car. I can hear that kid in my head, screaming. He gets louder, but I clench my fists as I approach the door, input the code, and head inside. “Dad?”
“In the kitchen!” He sounds so at ease, so relaxed, like we’re just having some normal father-son bonding time. Which is wild since that’s not us. Hasn’t been for a long time.
He’s opening cartons of food on the table, and as soon as he sees me, his eyes light up.
It’s a sharp contrast to what happened between Dax and his father.
Reminds me that, even though we have our fucked-up shit, there’s comfort and security in knowing he loves me.
He just…doesn’t understand me. Doesn’t know how to reach me. Guess that works both ways.
“Hey, kiddo.” He offers me a hug, which I find myself recoiling from as much as ever, while also feeling guilty about my reaction.
“Hey, Dad,” I force out, realizing some of this tension must be because of what I plan to do.
He pulls away, and the way he glances me over suggests he’s not totally unaware that something’s off. Of course, he doesn’t acknowledge that, just heads back to the table. “I got it from your favorite place with that popcorn chicken you like.”
“Thank you,” I say, which again catches him off guard. He looks unsettled by my appreciation.
“I’m glad you came by. You’re always so busy around the holidays, and I’m leaving for Aspen next Tuesday, so this might be our only chance for a while.
Come on, sit down.” He takes a seat at the end of the table.
“Get some food. I can’t imagine you’re eating the way you should be while you’re at school.
And you look like you’ve lost weight since I last saw you. ”
“Do I? Maybe. It’s not something I ever really think about.”
“Well, eat up. I’m always worried you’re not eating enough. And you never let me give you any money for food. You know, most of the parents I talk to give their kids money, even if they do have a part-time job.”
Again, Dad does such an excellent job of demonstrating how little he knows about my life, but I can’t really fault him, considering I’m determined to keep my distance from him. I pull out the seat adjacent to his, which he notices—how could he not, when I always sit on the opposite side?
As I settle, he starts collecting food on his plate.
I could forget all this. Just have a fine enough dinner with him, then head back to Peachtree Springs, fuck the hell out of Dax…be happy.
However, I wouldn’t really be fine. If I don’t face this, I’ll carry it into my relationship with Dax. And the thought of fucking that up…no, I can’t. Nothing is worth risking him.
It’s time. I have to do this now, before I chicken out.
“Dad…” I push out.
“Yeah, Miles?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“We’re talking.”
“I want to talk about…” The word catches in my throat, some remnant of how I’ve managed to keep this down all these years. Stop. Don’t. The screaming intensifies, but I fight it, push it out through my teeth. “Mom.”
He freezes with his spoon in the Mongolian beef, his face turning a shade paler.
Terror grips my chest, reminding me of how easily this could turn into a full-blown panic attack. Keep on breathing.
Dad swallows. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.
” He’s not making eye contact as he continues transplanting the beef to his plate.
“Let’s just have a nice dinner tonight. Here, you need a plate.
” He grabs the plastic plate and passes it to me, his gaze finally meeting mine, and there’s desperation in his expression, as though in taking the plate, I would be agreeing to play along with this fantasy.
I can’t do it, though. Not anymore.
“It’s not only Mom I need to talk to you about. It’s you too. And what happened back then.”
He sets the plate on the table, still avoiding eye contact. “I’ve told you, you need to talk to someone. I’ve always encouraged you to see a therapist, especially after the fire at Sigma Alpha.”
“The one I told you I didn’t start.”
His gaze wavers, and I can tell he’s skeptical. “It’s just hard for me to understand why you would have gone to the police if it hadn’t been you.”
“Because you didn’t ask me about it. You didn’t want to talk about it. Just wanted to handle it and move on like you did with Mom.”
That clearly strikes him like a punch to the face. He flinches. “I actually have some references I could give you, and someone in my pickleball group sees someone. I can get their name, and you can vet them out for the best fit. How’s that?”
The way he says it, it sounds like this is some fun game of Pick Your Therapist.
“I don’t want a recommendation from someone on your pickleball team,” I say, frustrated at how he’s acting. “You’re my dad, and I need to talk to you .”
“I just think you will have a lot of private thoughts about your mom, and a professional could really help you work through those, and you know, now that you mention it…” He pushes to his feet.
“I need to look up his information on Facebook. I think he might have a new number because I have his work card.”
My heart races as he rushes for the kitchen entryway.
No, stop. Stop!
I can’t get the words out, though, and he’s just reached the entryway when, in a panic, I shout, “Don’t leave me again!”
I don’t sound like the angry, fuck-all guy I usually am. I sound much gentler. More vulnerable…and terrified.
Dad’s frozen in place, and the adrenaline coursing through me settles, though I know I can’t let my guard down, certain he could still keep going. He turns around to face me, his eyes wide with horror. “What did you say, Miles?”
He knows damn well what I said, but it bears repeating. “Don’t…leave…me…again.”
He stares at me blankly, as though something I said shut down part of his brain. Finally, he seems to snap out of it and steps toward me. My muscles relax, as though it’s the reassurance I needed that he’s not going anywhere.
“Miles, I was not in a good place back then. I thought you would eventually come to understand that.”
I hesitate, trying to pick my words carefully, though I quickly realize it’s another delay, an attempt to keep from having to address any of it, to keep it buried inside me. And I just can’t anymore.
“I do understand, but it doesn’t change how it felt. I was a kid, and my mom had just killed herself, and then my dad’s MIA. And Aunt Tilly and Uncle Roger are making up all these reasons why I couldn’t see you.”
He searches the room, and at first I think he’s looking for a way to get out of this conversation, but then his gaze is far off, and he bows his head. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
My chest tightens. “So how do you think I felt? My parents are both gone, and I’m with my aunt and uncle, and no one’s telling me what’s going to happen. I’m not getting to see any of my friends at school. My whole life just changed, and I thought it was my fault.”
His forehead creases as his attention returns to me. “Your fault?” he asks, as though he genuinely can’t imagine why I’d suggest that, which I can’t for the fucking life of me get.
“What else was I supposed to think? She killed herself, Dad. I should have known something was wrong and done something, anything, to stop her. And then you left. And I’m trying to figure out if you blamed me for not helping her.
Fuck, I felt so much shame, Dad.” I’m gripped by that agony, the events flashing before me in quick succession, transporting me back to that dark time…
the screaming. “One day, while I was staying at Tilly and Roger’s, I went into the woods behind their house and just fell on my knees and started screaming as loud as I could, saying I was sorry and that you both needed to come back to me.
I was hoping, if I screamed loud enough, Mom or you would come back because I needed you, but no one heard me.
So I just screamed until I lost my voice. ”
His gaze meets mine, his eyes wide with panic or terror, and maybe for the first time, he seems to understand what I’m sharing with him. His eyes water, and he shakes his head. “You seemed like you were handling it fine when I got back.”