Chapter Three #2
Aaand we are moving forward… with maturity. Grown ass men in their thirties should know how to cook breakfast for supper, right? How hard can this possibly be? You pour the batter on the griddle, you flip it when it starts to bubble a little, you pull it off the griddle. Boom, pancake.
I repeat the process Ma told me, like a mantra in my head. Pouring, flipping, pulling—BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
“Fuck! My bacon!” I yelp. “The sprinklers! Shit, shit, shiiiiit! Not again!”
I dive towards the window, flinging it open and upending the baking sheet I was setting the hockey pucks—erm, pancakes—on so I can use it to fan the smoke out the window.
Aaand we’re moving forward… with pizza delivery.
“What do you girls want on your pizza?” I ask my wide-eyed children.
“I’m telling Mumma you swore,” Tati professes.
“No you’re not,” I hum. “You’re accepting another dollar in the swear jar, and you’re keeping it a secret.
” I’m not above a little bribery to keep them from giving Sarah more ammunition to use against me.
Besides, if we start referring to the swear jar as a savings account, it’s instantly more mature, right? Right.
“What’s da naughty word dat means ‘poop’ again?” Terra asks, cocking her head to the side.
“Shit?”
She holds out their swear jar. “I want anuddah dollar too.”
I narrow my eyes at her, forking over more for their college tuition. “I just got hustled by a six-year-old, didn’t I?”
She giggles and nods.
“Anchovies on Terra’s pizza it is then!” I declare, using my best regal voice.
Her nose crinkles when she makes a disgusted face. “Ew.”
I chuckle. “We going with the standard pepperoni, or are we adding veggies? I think your mom would prefer it if I got some greens in you somehow...”
“Yeah, but we aren’t at Mumma’s right now,” Tati notes.
I wobble my head. “That’s right, but… that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t mind some of her rules, right? Veggies are good for you, so she’s just trying to keep you healthy.” There. Very mature. Respecting Sarah’s wishes while the girls are under my roof. Though, I’m sure it’ll go unnoticed.
“Can we get salad then?” Tati asks, her enunciation always more practiced and refined than her twin’s. “I don’t want veggies on the pizza.”
I nod, tapping my temple. “Now that, my little genius, is an excellent idea. That’s called compromise. Yes, we can most definitely order a side salad. We’re still getting the pizza though, because life is about balance.”
They both nod, then Terra states, “Pepperoni, please.”
“Atta girl,” I say, winking at her. “And thank you for using your manners. Your mom told me you were working on using them more. I’m proud of you,” I tell her and am rewarded with a pink flush on her freckle-dabbed cheeks, right before she hugs me.
Man, I want to soak these hugs up forever, because before I know it, they’ll be too cool to hug their dad.
I flip a movie on for them, and go call in our order.
While I wait for the delivery driver to show up, I sit at the table and watch them play in the living room.
It occurs to me now that I truly must use alcohol as a crutch to cope with the loneliness.
Tonight, though? I have no urge to drink.
My heart is so full, just having them here under my roof, knowing that I will wake up to them giggling in their bedroom tomorrow morning.
I spent the rest of the evening reveling in my time with them before getting them tucked into bed with a story.
Standing here now, in front of the bathroom mirror, I take a long hard look at my face.
Somewhere underneath all this gaudy makeup that I allowed Tati to paint on my face tonight, is a man I hardly recognize anymore.
I scrub and scrub, and while the glitter and color fades, the subtle lines formed by aging and years out in the sun don’t.
Neither does the slightly yellow tinge in the whites of my eyes.
Neither does the puffiness and rosiness in my cheeks.
That’s probably from the alcohol.
I’ve been slowly killing myself, without fully even realizing it.
Guilt clenches my heart. I don’t want that. I want to live long enough to see my girls get their licenses, start jobs, and graduate high school. Fuck, maybe even watch them fall in love and get married someday. Have them grant me a few grandkids, if that’s what they decide to do.
Hell, there I go, putting them into stereotypical little boxes.
I swore, since Evan’s coming out, I would be less narrow-minded.
My girls can be whomever they want to be, and live whatever life they want—as long as I’m not bailing them out of jail for something stupid.
I just want to see them grow up healthy and happy, whatever their definition of happiness is.
I’ve let this addiction to drowning my feelings in alcohol spiral out of control.
I can’t do this to them, living a life that could potentially leave them bailing me out of jail.
That’s not the type of example I want to set.
I’ve got to do better, and I’ve got to adhere to that promise this time.
No more flaking off. And, for the life of me, I need to sober the fuck up.
So, on that, I slip my clothes off and slide into bed, hell-bent on doing some internet research about how to kick the habit on my own.
There are resources out there that I could reach out to, for sure, but I don’t know how I feel about asking for help.
For starters, I got myself into this mess, and I don’t need to drag anyone else into it with me.
I should be able to tackle this on my own, to prove that I am more than capable of climbing out of the very holes I myself dug.
I don’t need chips to reward me for reaching milestones; being fully present to be able to engage in parenting my daughters—something Wagner rarely ever did with his sons—should be validation enough.
If I can’t handle this without outside help, what measure of a man am I?
If I want this badly enough, I should be able to conquer it by myself.
Alone.
I roll over, spreading myself out in the middle of the bed rather than taking up just the edge.
The coolness of the sheets against my bare skin only serves to amplify that word "alone" that keeps getting pinballed around in my head.
I squeeze a pillow to my chest, hoping that action will somehow ease the physical strain on my heart right now.
My girls are tucked in bed in the next room over.
This pathetic feeling of loneliness shouldn’t feel this profound, but I’d be lying if I thought I didn’t crave a warm body next to me.
Not just for sex, but for intimacy. Something I’d once had with Sarah, before I pissed it all away by letting myself fall into the stagnancy of our familiarity.
I took for granted her being there.
I thought it was just default that she’d always stay.
I went through all the motions of a picture perfect life: giving her the marriage, the house, the children… but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t emotionally invested, just like she said. And, as sleep starts to claim me, I start to wonder if perhaps she’d ever find herself falling back in love with me.