33 Ethan
November 2018
I hate airports and I hate flying. I don’t get how people can possibly enjoy it. Everyone’s in a rush, my flight almost always gets delayed for no reason, and I usually end up sitting in front of a kid who kicks my seat the entire trip. This flight was no different. I wait for the passengers around me to make their way up the aisle, throw my duffle bag over my shoulder, and follow them. Luckily, Graham’s picking me up, which means we’ll get a drink before going to his house. God knows I need a few.
“Where’s your suit?” he calls out.
Graham is waiting for me in his topless Jeep Wrangler. It’s an unusually warm day for late November, but that’s North Carolina for you, always unpredictable.
“I thought city boys only wore suits everywhere. At least that’s what they make it seem like in the movies,” he continues.
I shoot down his poor excuse of a joke. “Who in their right mind would wear a suit on a flight that cost eighty dollars round trip?”
“True. Wanna hit Dockside? I figured we could sit outside and get a bucket of beers before seeing the ’rents.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I turn up the volume, and we listen to “Stir Fry” by Migos followed by a few other songs from that album until we pull into the restaurant parking lot.
“Does it feel good to be back?”
I shrug. “I haven’t been gone that long.”
“Dude, it’s almost been a year,” Graham points out.
Shit, he’s right. January marks one year since I packed up, left Wilmington, and moved to a city I thought I hated.
“It’s gone by so fast.” I follow him to the outdoor bar, where we take a seat and order a bucket of Corona.
The air smells salty and nostalgic. On one hand, I miss the beach. I miss packing up our surfboards and catching waves to avoid our problems. I miss finding sand in every crevice of my car. I miss having a car. But I don’t miss the memories this place brings up for me.
“So how are things? Where’s Sloane going for Thanksgiving?” he inquires.
I could’ve called it. It didn’t even take Graham a full hour to bring her up. This happens whenever I go somewhere without her. It’s like we’re a package deal. What’s the point of not being in a relationship if everyone just assumes we are anyway? I’m getting tired of people caring about us more than they care about me. Is that selfish? Maybe. Do I care? No.
“Can we talk about something else? Sometimes it feels like every conversation I have these days seems to revolve around Sloane.” I sip my beer. “How are you?”
“Sorry, dude, didn’t mean anything by it,” Graham promises. “I’m good. Living at home is getting old though. I wish I could speed up the wedding so Emily and I could live together already. Her parents are so traditional, it hurts.”
“Have you looked at new places?”
“We have a two-bedroom apartment over in Mayfaire, but it’s just her living there until the wedding. I stay overnight a lot though—crazy, I know. We’ll probably live there a year or two and then look at houses.” There’s a hint of excitement in his tone.
“Congrats, man.”
We finish the bucket of beers and then head to his house. I already know this is going to be a long weekend, one that I’m not sure I’m even remotely ready for.
***
“You’re sure that you don’t want to come out with us?” Graham asks one last time before getting out of the car.
“Maybe later. I’ll let you know. Thanks again for letting me borrow your car,” I reply.
“Anytime. Just meet or pick us up later. Good luck.” He slams the passenger door, and I watch as he and Emily walk into the bar hand in hand.
I type the address to a motel twenty minutes outside of Wilmington into my maps app. I turn up the volume on the radio so that I don’t have to hear my own thoughts, but they creep in anyway.
What am I doing? It’s been ten years. Ten years and he hasn’t tried to call or write. So why now? Am I just helping him clear a guilty conscience? Should I just turn around? Spend the night with Graham, the guy who’s been with me through it all? Or should I just suck it up and hear him out, so I don’t spend the rest of my life wondering what he wanted to say?
As I pull into the parking lot of the Motel 6, my palms start to sweat. I sit in the car for another few minutes before finally turning off the engine and getting out. I scan the numbers on the doors until I see the number 105. I hesitate before knocking.
When the door opens, I’m shocked. I don’t know what I expected my dad to look like after ten years in prison, but for some reason I thought he’d be the same guy I remembered. In some ways he is, but he’s older and smaller than before.
“Look at you,” he says, smiling slightly.
I stand in the doorway, still taking in the sight of him. I manage a half smile before he brings me in for a hug. I pat his back and awkwardly wait for him to pull away. This is so much worse than I expected.
I can tell that he’s been drinking, but I reluctantly agree to go to dinner with him anyway. Growing up, I never thought of my parents as alcoholics. They owned a bar, so I thought drinking was a part of their job, or at least my dad’s anyway. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood he had an issue.
He gets into Graham’s car, and I drive us to a restaurant a few minutes away from the motel. The car ride is mostly silent, but my brain won’t shut off. I can’t believe the guy in the passenger seat is the same guy that raised me. The guy who I called Dad, who taught me how to throw a football and ride a bike. He’s a sliver of the guy I remember and is now an ex-con with gray hair, a sunken face full of wrinkles.
We sit across the table from each other, and he orders us two Miller Lites. His fingers drum the neck of the bottle before he asks me the question I’ve been dreading.
“Have you talked to her? Your mom, I mean.”
“Not since she got out. Have you?” I take a big swig of beer.
“Her number has been disconnected for years. I was hoping you had a new one,” he continues before processing the words that just came out of my mouth. “Did you say you haven’t talked to her since she was released?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” I confirm.
He looks away, his disappointment evident. “She was supposed to go back for you. That was our agreement.”
“Well, she didn’t. According to Facebook she moved to Texas, got remarried, and has a daughter now,” I reply, my tone bitter.
“Fuck.” He rubs his temple before taking another sip of beer. “Fuck her. So you were living with the Clarks this entire time?”
“Yep.” My reply is short.
Relief washes over him. “They’re good people. Real good people.”
“So what was so important that you needed to talk to me after years of not calling?” I finally ask.
He looks at me, a seriousness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Son, I stopped calling because that’s what your mom wanted. She wanted a clean slate and a life that didn’t include me because she hated me for the mess that I got us into. She hated me because we lost you.”
“Clearly she didn’t care too much about losing me if she never came back,” I huff, finishing off my beer.
He leans forward. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here now. I’d like to start over. Get to know you.”
“Do you have a job?” I ask skeptically.
“At the marina. I’ve been picking up every shift, trying to hit overtime, so I can rent a place and get out of that motel,” he assures me.
The server brings us another round, and I consider his offer. Is he being genuine? It would be nice to have a parent of my own again.