Chapter 42
forty-two
. . .
Nick
The text taunts me. My screen flickers off, and I tap the glass, bringing the message back to brightness.
Sperm Donor
What r u up two?
Grimacing, I let the phone fade to black again, then shove it into my pocket. My head aches and I’m still a little rough around the edges after Dr. Palmer’s exam.
I need to block him. I want to block him. But I can’t.
Just like Bex can’t seem to cut her mother off, either. She wants to. I know she does. But something’s stopping her from actually doing it.
What a messed-up pair we are. Fitting. Our issues complement each other, and I understand her as well as I do myself.
I’m walking out of the practice facility when I catch sight of a man in the shadows. My Spidey senses go on sharp alert. My head throbs, but through it all, I have a sense that something is wrong.
This man is not safe to be around.
I’m a big guy, bigger than him. I can handle myself in a fight. But if he pulls out a knife and tries to excise my kidney, I’m fucked.
How did he even get onto the property?
“Nicky.” His voice is weak, slurred.
A chill runs down my spine. And as my father trudges into view, I clock the unsteadiness of his gait, his gaunt frame in clothes two sizes too big. He used to tower over me, but now he’s stooped, his back hunched.
What is he doing here? Paul trespassed him from the facility a few weeks ago; he shouldn’t be here.
I reach for my phone, ready to call the police, when his voice makes me pause.
“Son.”
“I’m not your son,” I snap.
Fred’s eyes widen, bloodshot and jaundiced.
“I need help.” He sounds broken. Defeated.
When I made it into the league, I paid for him to go to rehab. Not once. Not twice. Three times. That’s on top of all the times he tried when I was younger.
And all those times, he relapsed. The last time, he made it a solid six weeks before he drank. That’s the longest he’s made it.
I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know his struggle. I’ve never wanted to know it. Back when I was financing things, my therapist encouraged me to try Al-Anon, the support network for families of alcoholics.
But instead of finding community, I felt more isolated. So many people were going through the same troubles, but their family member was finding the strength to stay sober, and my father couldn’t manage that.
I resent him. I resent his disease. And most of all, I resent that I’m like him.
Right now, I know when to call it quits. But what if one day, I don’t? What if one day, I can’t escape the lure of the bottle?
What if one day, I turn into him?
He had the support of a good woman. My mother loved him unconditionally, giving him a piece of herself, and it killed her.
I have Bex by my side. What if I end up taking from her, upending the careful balance we have? What if I hurt her?
I don’t want to. I’d rather take all that pain and suffering on myself. But…
Fred shuffles toward me. “I heard you got injured. How are you doing?”
Fuck him. Fuck him for making me sympathize with the man who single-handedly tried to ruin my life. Fuck him for showing up when I’m broken and vulnerable.
He doesn’t actually care. He probably wants a story he can sell to the press. And yes, it’s shitty that I have to consider all the possible ulterior motives. He’s never cared about me before, only what I can do for him.
Not anymore.
I slip my phone from my pocket and pull up my contacts. With a few taps of the screen, I block his contact, once and for all.
He’s still standing before me, looking up at me expectantly.
I used to look up to him. I used to care about him. And then he threw it all away. He threw me away. And I let him.
Not now. Not anymore.
“You don’t get a redemption arc. I don’t have to be part of your story,” I snap. “Go to rehab, or drink yourself dead. I don’t fucking care. You are nothing to me. You don’t have any power over me.”
And with a burst of clarity, I realize… he doesn’t.
Growing up with a drunk for a father, I never knew which side of him I’d get. Five-beers Dad, jovial and fun to be around; or six-beers Dad, bitterly caustic and cruel. Make a mess of himself at hockey practice, or supportive cheerleader in the stands. Angry and paranoid, or World’s Best Dad.
There was never a way to predict.
But I’m not that scared little kid anymore. Elsy always says family are the people we choose to keep in our lives. The people we choose to love.
This man may be my father, but he’s not my dad. That ship sailed long ago.
He can need help, but I don’t have to be the one to help him. I can acknowledge he has a disease while holding firm to the boundaries that protect me from being caught in the shitstorm.
I turn on my heel, stalking back into the practice facility.
And then I stop short.
Because in the threshold is Bex, staring at me with horror on her face.
Fuck. I fucked this up, too.
My steps slow as I approach. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my redheaded beauty pulls me into a rib-bruising hug.
Frozen, I don’t know what to do. My arms hang limp by my sides as she embraces me, rocking me from side to side.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” she murmurs into my ear.
And that’s what breaks the dam. Tears fill my eyes, grief over the loss of my mother, over losing my father. The innocent child subjected to him. The pain of the last fifteen years, always hoping he’ll stay sober. The dread of that eventual phone call, telling me he’s finally gone.
Wrapping my arms around Bex, I bury my face in her hair. Her scent floods my nose, calming me faster than any pharmaceutical aide.
“So proud,” she repeats.
I choke back a cry, the sound trapped in my throat.
When she pulls back, her hand finds mine. The simple touch of her palm to mine slows my racing heart.
“It’ll be okay.” Her other hand lifts to cup my cheek, and I lower my head to kiss her.
She doesn’t mean it as a platitude. No, this is a promise.
Whether she knows it or not, being with her has given me the strength to change my future. To prune a toxic limb to allow the rest of me to grow.
“I love you.”
My lips find hers again. Another truth. Another promise.
“I love you, and I support you,” I continue. “Thank you for supporting me.”
Bex’s thumb traces over the bridge of my nose. “You make it easy.”