Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

He won’t be saying that for long. I punch him back. “Good to see you, too.”


I know my dad loves me. I know he’s proud of what I’ve done. I know he thinks the world of me—and I know I’m not worth a quarter of the value he’s assigned to me. But somehow, I manage to operate on autopilot. I joke. I shove him out of the way. I let him and Tina carry the conversation, and I remark that whatever it is in the oven smells good.

“It should,” Dad says smugly. “I had Fred make your favorite.”

It’s easy to fall into our old routines, even with Tina here. It’s like nothing is wrong, and I almost want to keep up the pretense forever. Almost.

I’m setting plates and forks on the table. Tina is shuffling through cabinets, finding glasses. Dad takes a dish out of the oven, looking surprisingly domestic with a cherry-red oven mitt. He sets it on the counter, a polished black marble that could double as a mirror, and then spoons pork, apples, and shredded, buttered Brussels sprouts onto plates. It smells amazing, and I can’t do this. I can’t sit here. I can’t eat. I can’t tell him.

He’s as neat as ever, fastidiously wiping up a drop of gravy the instant it hits the counter, rinsing out the dish and setting it in the dishwasher, putting the oven mitt back in place. I’ve missed him so much.

And yet, if I could, I would walk out the door and just leave. But Tina takes my hand, as if she knows I want to escape, and she anchors me down.

She pins me back to reality: I can’t let tomorrow happen. I can’t take over for him. I’m about to let him down—but I have to do it.

I find napkins and fold them under the silverware. Dad brings over three plates, balancing them like a waiter.

We have no ceremony. Dad sets the plates down. “Eat,” he directs.

Tina glances at me, but she sits.

I can’t eat. My throat is dry. The back of my throat tickles with incipient nausea. My hands curl.

“Dad.”

He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. That was the easiest word. I can say that and still not spill my secrets.

But I take a deep breath and force the issue. “We have to change the back end of the launch.” I don’t know how I’m managing to get these words out, but they’re coming. “I can’t take over for you.”

I brace myself for the coming storm. Sometimes employees joke that Dad named the company Cyclone because he’s like a tornado: you never know quite where he’s going to land or how much damage he’ll do. He might rip the entire house off its foundation. He might leave a feather untouched on a windowsill.

I don’t know what will happen.

Dad slowly sets down his fork. It’s coming. I can feel it coming. It would be okay if he just yelled at me. That, I could stand. But once I tell him the truth, once he knows how weak I am, how fucking ridiculous this is…

“What’s going on?” His voice is quiet.

I spread my hands. “I can’t do it.” I won’t even look at him. “I keep thinking about…Peter.”

His nostrils widen and he glances at Tina.

“Peter was the strongest person I knew aside from you. But he couldn’t do it. And you can’t do it. And you’re both stronger than me.”

He makes a disapproving noise. “You’re stronger than you think,” he says.

It won’t be over until I say it. “Dad.” I take a deep breath. I feel raw all over, like I’ve been dragged through gravel naked. “I’m not.” The words I’ve imagined saying for so long slide out. “I have a problem.”

I feel like I’ve entered dreamspace. I’m lightheaded.

“Go ahead, Blake.” My dad’s voice is even. “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s so not okay. After this, after he knows he can’t rely on me, it’s never going to be okay again. That thing my dad and I have… I’m about to break it for good.

“What kind of problem?” he asks.

And I make myself look into his eyes across the table. I make myself stone inside. I may be weak, but I can be strong enough to tell him.

“I have an eating disorder.”

He lets out a long breath. His hand clenches on the tabletop.

“It’s complicated,” I say. “I run too much. I’m not eating enough. If you want to read more about it…”

“Fuck.” The word out of his mouth is almost a primal growl, and I flinch away. “Fuck,” he repeats.

But I can’t stop talking now. “I’m going to be okay,” I say. “Eventually. I’m seeing someone.” I can’t look away from his eyes, no matter how much I want to. “I have a nutritionist. There hasn’t been any permanent damage. But I need to get away from everything that sets me off until it’s better. And—I’m sorry. I never wanted to let you down. But I can’t do this. Cyclone makes it worse.”

Dad pushes his chair back from the table and looks up at the ceiling. His face is white, and I can see all the lines that age has left in his visage. They seem suddenly dark and deep.

“Fuck,” he says for a third time.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.