THE CON FINALLY ended at five, and an hour later, we’re barely halfway through teardown. Dad’s crew is currently boxing merchandise and running hand trucks full of comics out to the vans as fast as they can, probably hoping to escape a repeat of last year. I’m mostly standing around, chewing on my lip, trying not to combust. I’m so keyed up, I can’t take it, between Peak—who I absolutely shouldn’t still be texting but yet compulsively am—and trying to convince myself I don’t actually care that I’m about to fly to Seattle by myself while Gray and my dad get to stay here.
I grab a box of leftover glow sticks and carry it out with the guys to the loading dock. Grayson’s driving me to the airport soon, but she’s still making the rounds, hugging pretty much every single person she knows—i.e., every single person still here. Most of the smaller vendors and artists are already done with teardown, just mingling with friends before they hit the road. Vera is already gone, and Peak along with her, but we’ve been texting nonstop since she hit the road.
My flight’s not for three more hours, and I try not to think about the fact that our house is only forty-five minutes from here the way Gray drives, and I could conceivably go see it quick before hitting the airport. Not that seeing it would make it easier to leave. It would just be nice to be asked. There are so many things I want to know too, like is my room still the same, is the tree fort still there, does anybody notice I’m not around?
I slide the box into the van, frowning at my own neediness, and turn around only to be met with the sight of my dad stalking toward me, Allison in tow. His eyes are bloodshot, his forehead is creased, his mouth open and ready to yell, and this is not what I meant by wanting to be noticed. There’s no way to escape without making a scene, so I just brace myself and try to remember to breathe.
I’m outside, the sun is setting, it’s cold but not unbearably so, my dad is going to scream at me, and it will be okay, even if it is not okay. Radical acceptance, my ex-therapist said, is the key to life. Meet life on its terms, even if the terms are totally fucked up. I thought it was bullshit then, and I still do, but.
“If it isn’t the prodigal son. Back to help now that everything’s over,” Dad slurs. He’s drunk, probably courtesy of his pal “Chuckie.” Judging by the way he keeps rubbing at his nose, probably more than drunk too.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, standing a little bit taller. Hopefully this will prevent him from also yelling at me for slouching.
“Where the hell have you been? Allison told me you didn’t come back until the con was over.”
Of course she ratted me out. Of course. I look at the ground to the right of him, hoping this will end quicker if I don’t make eye contact.
“Did you think it didn’t matter? You flip her off and disappear, and you think that’s fine? After you left the goddamn prom last night too? What do you think I bring you here for? You’re a brand ambassador, Ridley. I bring you here to work.”
“I thought—”
“Thought what?” He takes a step closer. “You’re on my time here, and I expect you to do as you’re told.” Each word he says is punctuated by the stab of his finger against my chest, and I flinch away from the smell of the alcohol on his breath.
itsokayevenifitsnotokayitsokayevenifitsnotokay
But that’s not quite true, is it? Not when your dad is slurring insults in your ear. And it shouldn’t sting when he calls me useless, and it shouldn’t crack me in places I’d never say. And I’m not crying—I’m not—I’m just staring at the ground near his shoe, studying it because I want to and not because I’m scared.
imnotscared
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he says, and I shoot my eyes to his, taking it in—the disheveled hair, the crumpled clothes, his skin wrinkled in places I’ve never noticed before. I don’t think he’s stood this close to me since I was little.
And I shouldn’t still hope he’ll catch himself, apologize, and hug me. I shouldn’t. And even Allison—Allison, who is nearly the same age as my sister—is tugging at his shoulders and telling him to quit it now, and the guys at the loading dock have all walked away, some shooting sad glances behind them. But he doesn’t stop, and I’m just standing there, pressed against the van with wide eyes, nodding while he calls me a piece of shit, like yes, sir, you’re correct.
itsfineitsfineitsfineitsfineitsfine
Even Allison’s looking at me with pity now, and good, because this is all her fault, and I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands, every word he spits a sliver shooting straight to my heart and—
icant
I want it to stop; I need it to stop. My phone buzzes in my pocket, the sensation overwhelming against my leg, and I slide it out without thinking, because, god, if ever I needed a lifeline, it’s now. I hope it’s Gray, but I don’t even care who it is. And I realize too late that it’s the exact wrong thing to do.
“Pay attention when I’m speaking to you,” my father shouts, banging his hand on the side of the van, and even Allison is freaking out now, saying she’ll call security if he doesn’t stop. Allison, who feeds me to the wolves every chance she gets, and oh, this is bad, this is bad, and his hand is still slamming against the van, and his spit is flying in my face as he screams at me about respect and duties and obligation and how I am falling so, so short of it all. He knocks the phone out of my hand, and it skitters across the ground, and there it goes, my link to the outside world, lost and cracked. I dig my nails into my hands and scrunch my eyes shut, and I wait and wait and pray he stops.
“Allison saw you at the Verona booth, Ridley. What were you doing?” And here comes the paranoia; I should have known.
“You followed me?” I ask, and Allison looks away.
“Come on, Mark,” Allison says softly. “Let’s go back inside.”
“What were you doing?” he asks again. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing, I swear,” I say, my voice a near whisper.
“Don’t lie to me, Ridley.” He leans closer, panting harsh, furious breaths, and all I see is the smudge of white powder still stuck in the corner of his nose and the hate in his eyes, and Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, okay.
tapouttapouttapout
“I think I have an in at Verona. I was checking it out,” I croak, my voice sounding tinny and garbled. Or maybe it’s just that my brain feels so far removed from this situation, which is both happening to me and not, which is both okay and not. And I feel cold, so fucking cold and heavy, like my blood turned to lead, and I just need to lie down.
Dad’s mouth opens and shuts, and he leans back a little. Enough that I can kinda slump down, that I can suck in air that doesn’t smell like booze and fear.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I say, losing my nerve. I skitter to grab my phone, but he grabs my arm, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to hurt, and I freeze.
“What do you mean, you have an in?”
dontdontdont
But it’s every man for himself in times like these, and I won’t go down with this ship. Except.
Except.
Her feather burns in my pocket, and I press my lips together in a tight line, one last-ditch effort to keep the words inside. But it’s not like I’ll ever see her again anyway. And she’ll probably stop texting me once she’s back home and busy with her real life. So if it’s her or me—
He loosens his grip on my arm, rubbing it up and down, then letting it go completely and dragging his hand through his hair. He looks confused, surprised, and while his eyes are still bloodshot, he looks a little bit more like the guy I knew way back when. The guy who didn’t drink so much, the guy who took me golfing that one time when I was seven and commissioned my own Venom comic for my eighth birthday. I’ve had enough people tell me everything happens for a reason. Maybe this is the reason. Maybe this is the way back.
itsnot
It could be, though. I flick my eyes to Allison, who’s being quiet now. And my dad, he doesn’t smile smile, but his lips turn up in the corners while he waits. “What do you mean, Ridley?”
I link my fingers behind my neck, staring at the asphalt as I say it. “I met Vera’s stepdaughter at the prom. That’s who I left with. We’ve been texting, and—”
My dad grabs my shoulders. “Does she like you?”
I shrug.
“Ridley. Ridley!” he shouts, like I just handed him the Holy Grail. “Think of how much intel you can collect for us to help with acquisitions.” And he pulls me into a hug. A hug. And I can’t remember the last time I had one of these, especially from him. “I could kiss you.” He laughs, letting me go. And I think, You used to once, every night before bed. What changed? But I don’t say it. I know what changed. I couldn’t take the pressure, and he couldn’t take the disappointment. Maybe this time I could make him proud. Maybe this time it could be different.
I wish I didn’t like the way he walked me back to our booth with his arm around me. Or the way he raised my arm up in the air when we walked up to Gray, like I was some kind of champion, even though I felt ashamed and unsteady on my feet.
I wish I could say that I pushed him away and left with my integrity intact.
That I got on the plane instead of going out to dinner with him for the first time in years.
That I didn’t feel a swell of pride when he asked me to sit next to him, while Grayson ended up at the other side of the table, where she couldn’t hear anything.
That I didn’t tear up when he asked me to stay in Connecticut with him, at the old house, in my old room, and said that Mom would have my stuff shipped out when she got back home.
Or when he promised to buy me a new phone to replace the one he just trashed.
Or when he said he had a place for me in the business, finally—on the recon team.
I wish the voice telling me that this was wrong, bad, very terrible was louder, and the voice weeping finally, always, please was quieter.
I wish.