“Hey Dad,” I said cautiously, pouring myself a cup. “You feeling alright?”
He nodded to some beat inside his head. Then he patted my arm and smiled at me. “Never been better, Jack. Never been better.”
“Happy Birthday, Jim!”
Mom ran up and squeezed him tight, causing him to spill some coffee down his shirt. To my surprise he didn’t snap something nasty at her. He only said, “Whoa there!” with a hearty chuckle.
“Good morning to you too, beautiful!” He kissed her cheek and they both smiled at me. There they were, arm in arm, a portrait of marital, suburban bliss.
Was I still high from last night?
“What’s wrong, Jack?” Dad asked, murmuring his approval of the brew to Mom in between coffee sips. He walked over and thumped me on the back, gently. “Cheer up, kid. Your old man’s forty today.”
“Every day is a good day,” Mom chanted blissfully.
Resolved that I was either still dreaming, tripping, or had awakened in some alternate universe, I spent the rest of the morning helping Mom decorate the backyard while Dad grilled hot dogs and burgers, sizzling smoke that smelled like summer barbecues and reminded me of childhood.
As we sat at the picnic table to eat, Dad announced he had big news for us. Mom clapped her hands with excitement.
“As of today,” he said, looking us straight in the eye. “I have quit drinking.”
I glanced at Mom, waiting for her to roll her eyes and scoff, and then back at Dad. But his expression was serious.
“Well, I’m proud,” Mom said. She raised her plastic cup in a toast.
They looked at me expectantly.
“That’s…that’s great, Dad.”
“I mean it this time,” he said. “I know I’ve made a lot of promises to you both, I know I’ve messed up and let you both down—”
“Let’s not dwell on the past, love,” Mom said briskly.
In the middle of the meal, which I’d barely touched, I excused myself and went upstairs to my room and lit a cigarette.
I knew I should quit. I knew they could kill me, after first making my voice raspy and hard like Mom’s, and I knew I smelled like an ashtray half of the time. I should probably switch to electronic cigarettes, try to wean myself off. But then I’d get restless again, and angry, and I’d reach for a cigarette. It didn’t help that my house smelled like them.
I watched the sun fall against the leaves of the palm trees in our backyard, their trunks drooping and crooked. It was cooler than usual, and my skin relished the sun that wasn’t beating down on me for a change. I lit my bong.
The door opened and Mom stood there, arms crossed, a huge frown on her face.
“You might want to stop being rude and come downstairs to celebrate your father’s birthday,” she said in that sickly-sweet voice she used when she was pissed.
I took a hit off my bong and she scoffed.
“Jack, really? Do you really have to do that in here? You’re stinking up the whole house.” She walked over to my window and opened it, letting in the hot air.
“I’m taking lessons from you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I’m not going back downstairs.”
“And why not?”
I took another long hit. There she was in her clean blouse and jean shorts, trying so hard to be the picture of normality.
“Because I think you and Dad are completely full of shit.”
She was silent for a moment. Her face contorted into a grimace and for a second I thought she might reach over and hit me. But then she stormed out of the room and slammed the door, leaving me alone with my bong and a mixture of anger and guilt in the pit of my stomach.
I tried calling Jess. No answer. She’d posted new pictures online of her with Skye and her friends, dolled-up, drunk, dancing, and looking happier than I’d seen her in forever. Before all of this, she would have come over, played video games and eaten popsicles on my lawn and laughed it off, my weirdo parents. We would have walked for miles around this town of broken dreams, past sidewalks full of holes and bumps, strip malls coated in garish colors, minivans and SUVs roasting in their gummy lots. We would have talked for hours or spent hours saying nothing at all.
Something pinched at my nose. Damn. I was going to cry. I let a few tears trickle out, wetting my cheeks, then brushed them aside and took a deep breath. I would call Connor. I’d go over there, and he’d fuck me and make me forget everything except for the smell of his warm skin and the feel of his body.
Maybe Jess had finally found her place after all, a place that didn’t need or involve me. Maybe I should just take the hint already and leave her alone for good.
I went over to Connor’s on Sunday morning. We watched our favorite movies back to back, huddled on the couch with my head on his chest. Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. He understood my love of these men, their rugged handsomeness and their sharp wits. He ran his fingers through my hair, my scalp tingling and my body filled up to the brim with warmth.
We sat on the patio smoking fresh weed, making out to a little rock, a little trap music.
“Where have you been?” Mom asked me that evening, grinning as I came downstairs after a day filled with everything Connor, the kind of day that left me feeling recharged and peaceful. She was in the kitchen wiping down wet dishes. My
