Dr. Dave smiles. “We should all be so lucky. So what did your dad have to say about you spending the holidays away from him?”
“He didn’t care. He actually broke into my locked room and destroyed it. Even pissed on some of my stuff in a drunken stupor.”
Dr. Dave’s eyes go wide and I realize I’ve slipped up. I swore I’d never let him know about Dad. Because then he has to report it. Shit.
“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say, all casual. “He didn’t really destroy it—he just went through my drawers. I think he was checking for drugs or something. And he only pissed on some clothes I left on the bathroom floor. He has bad aim when he’s been drinking.”
Dr. Dave’s not buying it. “Is this typical behavior for him?”
“Not at all,” I lie, rather convincingly, I think.
He scribbles something in his little book.
I crane my neck to see what. No luck. “In all fairness, I shouldn’t say he didn’t care I was gone for the holidays. He did kind of admit that he missed me. We even bonded over dinner that night.” A slight exaggeration.
“You always keep your room locked?”
“I don’t want him finding my porn stash.” Not that I have a porn stash. I mean, who needs that with the Internet?
Dr. Dave scribbles something else down.
He’s not buying a word I’m saying.
“Doc?” I ask, hoping he’ll look up from his frantic writing.
He doesn’t.
“What aren’t you telling me about your father, Tyler? I can’t help you unless you’re honest with—”
“Nothing. He’s just a dick.”
“Why do you really keep your door locked? Are you afraid of hi—”
“Of course not. I just want my own space. A place that isn’t his or Mom’s.”
“Are you hiding something?”
“I told you about the pictures of Mom and what he’d do if he found them.” I’m getting angry. I really don’t want to talk about this. How the hell did I screw up like that?
“You’re positive that’s all it is?”
“Yes!” I snap.
“Okay.” He holds his hands up.
I seriously need to change the subject. I take a deep breath before speaking again. “I’m thinking about asking Coach for advice on the whole Stanford thing. You think that’s a good idea? I mean, I think he’s probably still mad, but I kind of miss football and I’d like to apologize to him for leaving the team in the lurch.”
This does the trick. Dr. Dave eyes me warily, but then he sees I’m not bullshitting. “I think that’s a very good idea.”
“Yeah? I wasn’t sure. I mean . . .” I trail off, stopping myself.
Dr. Dave can tell I’m on the verge of letting him in. He’s trying so hard not to push me—I can see it all over his face—that I even kind of want to.
“I didn’t realize I missed football so much, but I do. I really do. And I was thinking the other day . . . Well . . . I can’t keep blaming football for keeping me from being there for my mom. She probably would’ve killed herself either way, right?” I’m not asking him to confirm.
He sets his notebook down and leans forward until I look at him. His smile is a mixture of elation and pride.
I have to look away. “It wasn’t because of football that I missed the signs. That was all on me. It was my fault for pulling away. For not wanting to see what was happening. What it was doing to her.”
“No, Tyler.”
I look up. The smile’s gone from his face.
“It was! I, of all people, knew how helpless and hopeless he could make you feel. I knew she was in pain. I knew she hated him and she was afraid of him and she loved him and she blamed herself for the way he . . . I knew all that. I just didn’t want to deal.”
“Tyler, look at me,” Dr. Dave says in a way that makes me do it. “It wasn’t your fault. Not one bit of it. You understand? You should never have been put in a situation that made you feel responsible for either one of your parents. They are your parents. They are not your responsibility. You are theirs. Okay?”
I nod because I think that’s what he wants me to do.
“Good,” he says, sliding a box of Kleenex my way even though I’m not crying. “Now, when you say she was afraid of him and that you knew how that felt . . .”
Shit. I tune out the rest of his question, desperately searching for a way off of this topic. “Look, my dad is a master manipulator,” I finally say. It’s not a lie.
“Meaning?”
“He knows how to word things in a way that will cause the most harm. He hits below the belt. He likes to remind you that you are not better than him,” I say. “That’s why I don’t talk about him. I don’t want to give him any more thought than is absolutely necessary.”
“Does he—”
“I’m done talking about him.” I sit up taller, making it absolutely clear that I will leave.
“Okay,” he says, conceding.
It’s tense in here now. I eye the door while Dr. Dave arranges his notebook on the coffee table, aligning it just so with the edge of the wood. Finally, he speaks.