“I’ve been going more often since Mom left, and even more within the past six months.”
“The last six months, meaning when you started going back to the same place? Where you’re still going back to, even now?”
Then all I could say was, “ … yeah.”
“Why do you think that is? Why do you think you keep going back to the same time?”
I had no answer for her.
I have no idea why I keep going back to the same time, and why I’m going more often. It’s like I’m meant to live a different life there. Two lives at the same time.
It worries me.
I get out of bed and grab my shoes and sweatshirt from the chair in the corner. My side still throbs, but it doesn’t feel any different from anything I’ve dealt with before.
I make it downstairs without a sound.
But when I smell coffee coming from the kitchen, I let out a quiet sigh and continue on. Uncle Jasper glances up from his paper as I pause in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Sit down and I’ll have a look at your side,” he says.
I glance at the door, trying to find an excuse to leave so I’ll be home before Dad goes to work. “I’m sure it’s fine. I should get home.”
“Kale, just sit down. This will only take a minute.”
I pull out the chair and sit, lifting up my shirt so Uncle Jasper can look. I stare at the stove over his head as he peels away the bandage and tape. Not wanting to look at something that could’ve killed me. Just thinking about it makes my heart pound faster.
It was too close.
“It looks good. Just make sure you keep it clean and come back if the stitches start coming out before they should.” He throws the red-stained bandage in the trash, replacing it with another one. “You’re lucky you heal pretty quick. It’s like—I don’t know.” He shakes his head and sits down.
“Like I was meant for this?” I pull my shirt back down.
He shrugs and goes back to eating his toast. “I don’t know. Maybe. Do you want some breakfast?”
“No, I should go.” I pull on my shoes, being careful of my side.
“I was going to work in the garage if you want to join me. I’ve got a ’68 Camaro in there that needs a lot of work. Should be fun.”
I stand and head for the door. “Maybe later.”
Then he says, “Why are you in such a hurry to get home?” But his tone of voice is different from before. Hinting at what he already knows.
My hand pauses on the screen door. “And why do you keep trying to stall something that’s inevitable? You know things aren’t good between us, and not being there more won’t help anything.”
Uncle Jasper’s chair pushes back, and I see him in my periphery, putting his dishes in the sink. He grabs his truck keys off the counter, only pausing to say, “It only is because you make it that way.”
He turns to leave, but I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Because I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices, Kale. You have the choice to tell him again, but you don’t.”
I turn around and he stands in the doorway, turning to leave. “Because I can’t.”
“That’s something for you to figure out. Not me and not anyone. And until you realize that, I can’t help you.”
I haven’t heard his voice this hard in a long time.
“And I never asked you to,” I tell him.
I regret saying it the moment the words come out.
Whatever drop of temper Uncle Jasper had is gone. Like he’s given up already. “Then go home, Kale. Go home and keep lying to your father thinking it’ll get better on its own.”
And he leaves. Not even looking back once.
Before my thoughts have any time to process, I breeze out the door and across the lawn, walking as fast as I can without pain stabbing my side. The sun is starting to rise when I disappear into the woods. I’m blinded by rage and my heart pounds too fast.
I stop suddenly and yell, “Fuck!”
I don’t remember ever being so angry.
But I don’t know if I’m angry at Uncle Jasper or myself. Because what bothers me the most is that he’s right. I need to try telling him again, consequences or not. I need him to believe me and see me for who I really am.
Why does telling the truth have to be so hard?
I start down the path again, my blood still hot from what was said in the kitchen. It’s one of those moments I wish I could take back. Uncle Jasper isn’t the one I should be fighting with.
I pull on my sweatshirt when the house comes into view. I feel colder already. My car is exactly where I left it, and Dad’s truck is parked next to Bryce’s near the garage. The insides of my stomach are tight.
I never know what to expect when I get home. Some days are good. Some days are bad.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I start across the dew covered grass. Making a darker trail from where I came from.
I could’ve waited until later to come home, like Uncle Jasper was trying to get me to do. But the longer I put it off, the more nervous I get. I would rather get it done with. One less thing to worry about.
Dad is on the couch watching the morning news. I let the door swing shut behind me.
He takes a long look at me. “You look like shit.”
Love you, too, Dad.
The news anchor’s voice echoes from the television, pushing its way between our silence. Dad finally looks away and puts his mug on the coffee table. He’s too calm. Like something worse is coming.
“Kale, do you know it’s a privilege to live in this house?” He stands, towering a half foot over me. I hate looking up at him. So I don’t. I can’t. “I work so you can eat, sleep, take showers. It costs money to live … something you know nothing about, because you can’t get a damn job.”
Then he asks something he hasn’t for a long time.
He voice is soft—changed. “Why do you keep doing this?”
I slowly lift my head, barely able to look him in the eye. And what I see there isn’t anger. They’re the eyes of a father who cares. Someone I miss.
I open my mouth, but words won’t come out. I’m scared to tell him the truth—scared to say anything—thinking it’ll make worse all over again.
“I’m sorry.” The only words I know.
I can see his mind whirling. At first, a look of disappointment crosses his face, followed by something I’m starting to see more of—anger. Dad has never hit me before but sometimes I’m scared he’ll start. I’m scared of that more than anything.
“I know what you want from me,” I start, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Then I seal my fate with, “But I’ve already told you the truth.”
Dad acts confused at first, likes he’s forgotten, but then shakes his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you again.” He turns away from me and starts down the hallway, probably wishing there was beer in the fridge even though he quit years ago. I can’t let it end like this.
“Dad, wait—”