“There’s some crap for you on the kitchen table.” He points the remote at the TV.
Captain looks up at me, waiting for me to open my door, but my curiosity is piqued. I need to feed him anyway, so we head back up the stairs, where I see several bags of groceries on the table next to a large bag of dog food—the kind Captain likes, even. One bag is filled with shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, and disposable razors. And the other contains a four-pack of toilet paper. The nice kind.
My throat tightens. I look through the railing at Dad, but he just continues scrolling through the channels like nothing’s happened.
I feed Captain and throw a frozen burrito in the microwave. It sounds like Dad has decided on some hillbilly show about something no one really cares about. Once Captain’s done eating, I load my arms with all my groceries and head for my room.
I pause at my door, staring down at the key in the lock. “Thanks.” My voice sounds strangled.
I hear him start to cry. My stomach grips in a small spasm of guilt and I almost turn, but then I wave Captain down the stairs without looking back. If he knows I heard him crying, things will go south very fast.
How did things between us get so messed up? We used to talk. We used to joke, even. Sure he had his alcohol-induced violent episodes, but he wasn’t quite as much of . . . Who am I kidding, he was always an asshole. Pathetic that I’m feeling nostalgic for the days when he was slightly less of an abusive dick.
? ? ?
I tell Dr. Dave about the jacket at my session Saturday morning.
“Well, Tyler, I’m proud of you.” He’s just over the moon about the jacket thing. “I’m impressed that something affected you enough to do something this thoughtful for someone you claim to dislike so much.”
“I never said I didn’t like her.” I sink back into the cushion.
“You intimated it.”
“No, she doesn’t like me.”
“If she was kind enough to drive you to school, she obviously doesn’t hate you as much as you think.” He looks at me. “I wonder, why is it so important to you that she doesn’t hate you?”
“It isn’t,” I say. But then I think about her disappointed face when she found out about Ali.
“You care about her.” He’s smiling that smug shrink-smile of his. “I’m right aren’t I?”
Is he right? “Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc. I don’t.”
“Why do you think you’re afraid to admit that you care?”
“I don’t care,” I repeat. And I hate that I maybe do. Mostly I hate Jordyn for confusing me in the first place.
? ? ?
“I tried to get your attention yesterday as you bailed on school,” Jordyn says when she finally arrives at the studio. She’s almost forty minutes late. I guess if your stepdad or whatever is the boss, you get to be forty minutes late without consequence. Never mind the poor employee forced to sit outside waiting for you to open the damn door.
I pull myself to my feet but don’t bother looking up from the blog post I’m reading about last night—Marcus had a pretty awesome game. Brett, not so much. Jordyn sighs and sits at her computer, like she’s annoyed and waiting for me to ask what’s wrong. Not going to happen.
Henry doesn’t have anything till 11:00, and then he’s booked solid for the rest of the day—four sessions back-to-back. I won’t have time for lunch, let alone to think. Thank god.
After I finish reading again about how Brett fumbled what should have been an easy touchdown at the end of the fourth quarter, which led to a turnover, which led to the other team’s winning touchdown—go, Falcons!—I get on YouTube and try to alleviate my guilt by watching a series of videos about quantum mechanics. I feel Jordyn studying me, but I ignore it. After the fifth video, I head back to the kitchen to grab a Coke and a snack.
Jordyn enters the kitchen just as I’m taking a huge swig of Coke. I let out the nastiest, loudest belch in the history of belches, blowing the stench her way as I pass her. She grunts and shoves my arm. I wish she’d stop being so damn nice. I head back to the computer and watch yet another video about quantum physics and alternate universes and time-travel and shit. Wouldn’t that be something, if that stuff actually existed? I would go back in time, get home from training earlier so I could stop Mom from slitting her wrists, and then I would force her to explain to me how she can be so goddamn selfish.
Henry throws the door open and saunters in, whistling. He’s in an annoyingly good mood. Somebody got laid last night.