Chapter 13
CRAZY PEOPLE
I left Layla’s house and drove home with the intention of calling her the minute I got in the door. My head was swimming with all the things I didn’t say, and I spent my drive time preparing a script for when I finally got her on the phone.
There were so many things I wanted to tell her. How I should’ve asked her to the dance tonight. How I’d been sitting on the sidelines, waiting for her to want me. How I shouldn’t have waited at all.
I spent way too much time keeping her at arms’ length. And I definitely regretted it.
There was no way I was going to ask her out over the phone or anything, but at least I could’ve made plans to see her the next day. At least I could’ve lain the groundwork.
I should’ve just done it right then. I had the perfect opportunity. There I was, standing under her window like an idiot, trying to find a way to tell her how I felt. I was all set to do it. Right then.
And then she invited me inside.
It was nice to see that we were on the same page for once. I knew what she was thinking by the look on her face. Hell, I was thinking the same damn thing. I knew she wanted me. We were both dying, staring into each other’s eyes. It was obvious that we wanted each other. Bad.
Woulda been nice if her father hadn’t come home. I was kinda looking forward to finally getting my lips on her. Too bad I had to bolt before I even got my foot in the door.
I could call her as soon as I got home, though. We could straighten everything out.
My mind was set on doing just that, but when I walked into the foyer, I saw that the old man was up. Just sitting there in his fucking chair in the den, a goddamn glass of scotch in his hand.
Shit.
I didn’t know how many drinks he had in him, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t really want to know. I didn’t even bother to say hello. No way was I going to give him an opening. I knew from experience that the best move I could make was to just get the hell out of there.
Sorry for not getting into this before now; I really don’t like to constantly spill all the gory details about the whole situation, but you should know that seeing him like that—slumped in a fucking chair, falling asleep with a glass in his hand—wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.
Passing out was the least of his offenses, however.
I could relay a lifetime of stories to you, like that time he threw a dish of sweet potatoes against the dining room wall one Easter. Or that time when he got thrown out of the arena during one of my games. I could fill an entire book with the bullshit I’ve witnessed over the years, but I’m not going to take the time to hash all that crap out right now. Just know that the guy tends to drink himself into a stupor most nights, and I’ve learned over time that it was best to just steer clear of him when he did. Asshole.
Sometimes, though, there was no avoiding him. Like tonight, apparently.
His garbled voice was just dripping with pointed venom and inflated sarcasm as he chortled, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the pride of the family.”
After years of encountering this same scenario, I knew better than to engage with his drunken ass. Like always, I should have just blown him off, headed upstairs to my room, locked the door, and waited for him to pass out.
But God. I was so fucking sick of ignoring his slurry jabs. That night, I didn’t slink away. The guy really pissed me off when he was like that, and I’d just about had enough.
Fuck him.
He wanted a fight? Screw it. I was going to give it to him.
“Yeah, well, I figure at least one of us should make this family proud.”
I hoped that would be the end of it, and had just placed one foot on the stairs when he hauled himself off the chair and staggered into the foyer.
Okay, then. Here we go.
I pulled my shoulders back and crossed my arms over my inflated chest—an attempt to make my six foot frame look bigger than it really was—but I always felt small compared to him regardless. I sized him up as he stationed himself inches away from me, towering over me like he’d done my whole life.
But then I noticed something.
The old man may have had a few inches on me, but his middle had gone soft in recent years. Plus, he was half in the bag. I didn’t know at which point in my life it had happened, but somewhere along the way, I’d gotten the advantage over him.
I can take him.
The thought strengthened my courage, so I was over-confident when I said, “You got something to say, old man?”
His eyes flashed with elated menace, encouraged that I had risen to the bait. Next thing I knew, I was trading rapid-fire barbs and shoves with the drunken bastard.
“Hey superstar. You think you’re tough, huh.”
“Tough enough.”
“You want to show me how tough you are?”
“I’m standing right here, old man.”
He prodded my shoulder a few times, but I held my ground. Planted my feet. Made sure I kept my balance. When he took a shot on the side of my head, I swatted his hand away and shoved him against his chest. He didn’t fall over but he staggered backward, so I still managed to glean a distorted sense of pride out of catching him off balance. He wobbled on his feet as he stepped closer, malice glinting in his eyes.
I wasn’t prepared when he grabbed two handfuls of sweater in his meaty fists and pushed against my torso.
Before I knew what was happening, my feet had left the ground.
My back slammed against the wall as the air exited my lungs in a terrifying whoosh, and then my body folded in half as I slid to the floor, recovering from the blow.
He’d literally knocked the wind right out of me.
Our fights had never devolved past a few menacing shoves, so the attack caught me by surprise. I hadn’t even fully registered what had just happened yet when his hands went under my armpits, standing me back upright, pinning me against the wall. He held me in place with a forearm against my chest, his face so close, I could smell the liquor on his breath. It made me want to wretch.
I was still trying to get my bearings when he snarled into my face, “Hey there, superstar. You think you’re so big? Not so tough now, are you.”
And then, just like that... wham! He elbowed me in the face.
I shoved against him hard but he still had a grip on my sweater as my mother ran down the stairs in a panic. She clasped her robe closed with a fist at her neck, her other hand pulling the two of us apart. “Stop it! Terry! What are you doing?”
Dad released his hold on me and I bolted up the stairs while I could. Even from a floor away, I could hear my mother reaming him out downstairs, really laying into the bastard for daring to hurt her son. Threatening to leave him if he ever so much as touched a hair on my head ever again.
He didn’t even fight back. Either he realized how guilty he was or our little boxing match had wiped him out. I was banking on the latter.
I slammed my bedroom door and paced the floor like a caged tiger—disorientated, distressed, and in more than a little pain. I rubbed my sore shoulder blade and jabbed a tongue at my split lip but the hurt wouldn’t lessen, and when my vision blurred, I realized there were tears in my eyes.
Why the hell was I crying? Why was I letting him get the best of me? Fuck him. Fuck that drunken asshole. He doesn’t deserve to win.
What kind of father does something like that to his own son?
It’s not like I was some screwup. I was a good kid.
I’ve tried my whole life to make him proud of me. I’ve done everything right. I wasn’t in jail or wreaking havoc out on the streets. I’ve never knocked anyone up. I was respectful to my family and my teachers. I made good grades. I was an athlete. I worked hard in school, on the ice, and at my job.
What more do I need to do to stop this?
I pressed my palms against my stinging eyes, physically willing the tears to stop. But I was fucking devastated, not gonna lie.
It seemed anytime something good happened to me, something bad was always there waiting to counteract it. Why? What was so rotten about me that I deserved this?
When I came home tonight, the air was full of promise. At last, something was happening between Layla and me. I finally had something awesome to look forward to.
And then, with one step inside my front door... it all turned to shit.
Couldn’t I have just one good thing that went unpunished?
I was confused.
I was frustrated.
I was furious.
My wallowing soon turned to wrath as I punched my pillow over and over again, trying to exorcise my anger. But the softened blows were doing nothing to neutralize my rage. I finally picked my lamp off my nightstand and hurled it against the wall where it shattered with a sickening crash before it fell to the floor.
My entire body just gave out after that, and I slumped onto my bed with my face in my hands and sobbed uncontrollably. I just let it go. Shoulders shaking, breath-catching... the whole nine.
I just wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted to go to Layla’s, wrap my arms around her, and have her take all the hurt away.
Why doesn’t he love me?
My mother’s soft knock at the door forced me to pull myself together. “Terrence? Can I come in?”
I swiped an arm across my face and ran my hands through my hair. I knew I probably still looked like hell, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. “Yeah.”
Mom opened the door and stepped in cautiously. Her brows were pulled together high above her worried eyes, her mouth was drawn in a firm line, and seeing that concerned look on her face almost broke me all over again. She closed the door behind her and locked it before coming over to sit on the bed next to me. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No and yes.”
She ran a hand over my hair, causing me to flinch from her touch. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”
“I hate him!”
“Terrence, it’s okay to be angry. But he’s your father. You don’t hate him.”
“I do!”
I knew she was trying to help but I was pissed at the world at the present moment and couldn’t stand her consoling tone. I leapt off the bed to get away from her and pulled my sweater off. There was a hole torn in the front where my father’s fingers had dug into my chest. I just got the thing three days ago so I’d have something nice to wear for the dance.
I tossed it in the garbage without a second thought.
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “You’re not the one who beat the crap out of me.”
“He had no right to hit you.”
As pissed as I was, my pride won out. “He didn’t hit me, Ma. Just roughed me up a little.”
“Even still. He doesn’t have the right to hurt you. You need to be able to feel safe in your own home.”
“I do, Mom. I just wish...” My words trailed off. There was no use verbalizing all the many desires I had for my life that would never come true.
“I know. I wish he’d curb the drinking too. I just don’t know what to do about it anymore. I’ve tried, Terrence. You know I’ve tried.”
Not hard enough.
* * *
The next day, my father apologized—he always did—but Mom made me take her to church under the mistaken belief that we could pray my father’s drinking problem away. I happened to believe that religion in general wasn’t designed for modern, thinking adults. There’s no sin quite like ignorance. But the rituals of Catholicism meant a lot to my mother, so I shut up and went along with it.
Immediately afterward, we went out for lunch, just to get the two of us separated from him for a few more hours and have The Talk about getting him some help. Again.
Needless to say, the weekend kind of got away from me.