Take Me On

The floor creaks and Rachel and I both turn our heads to see Dad standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He clears his throat and motions for me to follow him out. “West.”


A million words form in my mind. Rachel didn’t lose me. I love her. I would cut off my own legs and give them to her if it meant she could walk again. Because I’m an idiot, I say none of them. Instead, I open the fridge, grab a diet soda and leave it on the table.

Dad’s already at his mahogany desk when I enter his office and slink into the chair across from him. The table behind him is full of pictures of our family. Most of them are of Mom and their lost daughter, Colleen. It’s the loose picture of me and Dad stuck to the corner of an eight-by-ten matted framed picture that’s my favorite. I was eight in the photo and thought my dad kicked ass.

Dad’s in a white button-down shirt with no tie. His suit coat is hung on the back of his chair—an indication he just arrived home. He finishes typing on his laptop, then focuses on me. “Your guidance counselor called and told me about the fight.”

Prepared for this, I’d packed the moment I walked in the door. I’ve got three full bags ready to go and a wad of cash thanks to my job at the bar.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“What?”

“Tell me why you got into the fight.”

Dad hasn’t asked why I’ve done anything since my second suspension in eighth grade. “The guy hurt Haley.”

“Haley’s your girlfriend.” It’s a question said as a statement.

“Yes.”

He reaches into a file folder and produces the report card I hammered to his office door. “You could have handed this to me.”

“Could of.” But nailing a straight B report card to his door was the equivalent of flipping him off. The suspension screams I’m a failure, while the report card is my “fuck you” to him.

Dad flattens his lips and stares at his desk. I know that look. He’s seconds away from losing his patience and tossing out the “You’re a disappointment” lecture. I scoot to the end of my chair, ready to leave.

“Is it possible for us to talk?” he asks.

“You know I got suspended, right? Still feel like sharing a feel-good moment?”

“I don’t remember the last time we’ve had a conversation.”

My eyes flicker back to the picture of us, and Dad follows my line of sight.

“It hasn’t been that long,” he says.

Yeah, it has, but I relax back in my seat. I’ll admit—I’m disarmed yet cautious. He’s never waved a white flag, but I wouldn’t put it past him to knife me in the back. “Let’s talk.”

“All right. Let’s talk.” Dad taps his fingers together. I search for the last conversation Dad and I had without it turning into a slam fest. I look over at the photo again. Dad and I had made a birdhouse together for a school project—the same day I first used a hammer and a nail.

“I fix stuff,” I say. “At a bar. It’s what I was hired to do, and I’m good at it.”

“I know what you’ve been doing. At the bar, at school and with the gym.”

Anger tremors deep within me. The lone outward sign is the grim lift of my lips. “You’ve had me followed.”

“You’re my son and you left home. What did you expect me to do?”

“You kicked me out and I expected you to come after me. Not let me live in a car for two weeks.” The words slip out and I shift, immediately wishing I could take them back.

As a child I wondered if Dad’s hands were a crystal ball with all the answers because of the way he’d lose himself in them when I stood in the middle of this room waiting for whatever punishment for my crimes. I know now there’s no magic—just staring.

“I wanted you to ask me to return home,” he finally says.

“Wouldn’t have happened.” I would have lived in a car forever rather than crawl to him.

“I know,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “And I don’t think you would have returned home even if I had come after you. I hated using your mother as the excuse to force you back, but I didn’t think you’d come home any other way. It was obvious when you didn’t return that weekend that you were set on proving something and I know how you are when you get determined.”

If he had asked me... No, if he had begged, I would have come home, but begging isn’t his style and crawling isn’t mine. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I was set on proving something.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Dad asks.

“A failure? A loser? A disappointment?” If I say it first, it steals the sting from his words.

“Me.” Dad unbuttons the top of his shirt. “Every time I look at you, I see me and it’s a mirror I don’t like looking into.”

Jesus Christ. I lean forward and scrub my face with my hands. For years we’ve torn each other down. That’s how we communicate—in glares and words of hate. How the fuck am I supposed to respond to this? My head spins as if I’ve been knocked around.