Dark Wild Night

Dad sits on the corner of my bed near my feet and sips from his mug, staring at the wall. I can sense the looming start of a conversation, the moment when he talks about Ellen, or asks me more about what’s going on with work, with me. I feel restless in my skin, like I’m not sure I want to be here, but I don’t really want to go home, either.

To be honest, it’s how I feel about every single thing in my life right now: I want this career I’ve created but I want it to be smaller, simpler, more manageable. I want Oliver, but I don’t want to need him so much. I want to be able to breathe without feeling like my chest is bound with rope but everything is dialed up to eleven right now. And most of all, I want to know how to fix what I’ve done. The prospect feels overwhelming.

Dad’s eyes flicker to my duffel, obviously hastily packed and sitting open in the corner. “You know, we talk, but we don’t talk,” Dad starts. His voice is weak, sort of reedy, and this is always what happens when we get emotional. Neither of us knows how to do it. It’s like putting a kid on a bike for the first time. They’ll stare at the pedals and then look up like, What am I supposed to do?

That’s us, talking about feelings.

“We talk almost every day,” I remind him.

“I know everything you do, but not much of what you feel.”

I groan into my coffee. “I thought we were here to talk about you and Ellen.”

He ignores this. “You’ve been on a work bender,” he guesses, turning to look at me. “I’m serious. I want to talk to you. You’re a mess.”

My dad knows every one of my best and worst choices. He knows every part of my story and so I always assumed he knew what I felt, too, simply because he knows me. But he’s right: we don’t dive deep into our feelings. We never have. We crack jokes and use sarcasm to make each other laugh, but we don’t label emotions. I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that I do the same thing with Oliver.

“Come out in the kitchen and let’s have breakfast. Let’s talk.”

I look around the room to see where I’d strewn my things as I crashed into bed last night. “Actually, if you’re sure you’re fine, I should head home. I have a mountain of work.” I close my eyes, swallowing down the bubble of panic already working its way up my windpipe.

“No,” Dad says, and he has a sharp, level tone that I’m not sure I’ve heard since I was a little kid getting into trouble. It makes my brain itch, makes me long for open air and more physical distance.

I put my mug down on my bedside table and get out of bed.

“Kitchen,” he says. “Ten minutes.”



* * *




“YOU LOOK LIKE hell, kid.”

“You said that already.” I walk past him to start another pot of coffee. “I just have a lot going on with work. Tell me what happened with Ellen.”

He settles on a barstool and spins in small arcs as he speaks. “Apparently she started seeing some guy she works with.”

“Are you using the term seeing loosely?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, facing him.

“Out of respect for my daughter’s delicate sensibilities, yes. More accurately, she was fucking some guy at the bar.”

I wince. “Did she tell you?”

He laughs, drawing out the single word with a twist in his voice: “Nope. I saw her with him when I went to surprise her after her shift. She was leaning across the bar with her tongue halfway down his throat. They looked pretty familiar.”

“Want me to punch her?”

Laughing again, he shakes his head. “I want you to make me your special eggs and tell me something good.”

I turn toward the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?” he laughs. “How’s Oliver?”

I shrug, grateful that I’ve got my back to him as I grab the bread. “We’re doing about the same as you and Ellen.”

“Oliver cheated?” he croaks.