This is it; rock bottom. Knuckles raw from entire nights hitting the punching bag, trying to push the frustrating anger of my mistakes out of my flesh. Nights out that end with me blind-drunk in the back of a cab rather than bare-naked in some random woman’s apartment. My apartment trashed from the random rages that overwhelm me in the middle of the night, as if physical strength is the last thing I’ve got to depend on. If only it was that easy.
I could have taken Jessie seriously when she told me how she was feeling, instead of still regarding her as the immature kid that always followed us around. I could have at least tried to stop it when it was just fun, could have gone out and found another girl to fuck and see how I truly felt. I could have told Kyle the second we came back from the retreat. Shit, I should have stopped to talk properly with Jessie about what we were doing while we were there. Though if there’s one thing I can still forgive myself for, it’s not thinking straight when me and Jessie were burning for each other. Even now, even with the dull ache that thinking of her causes in my chest, I realize how amazing she is, how much I still want her.
I get up off the couch, but only to mope around the apartment like a caged animal. I used to like my place, until it started feeling a little small, but now it feels like a prison of my own making. A monument to what an asshole I am. The condoms I put in discreet but easy-to-reach places in all the rooms. The soundproofing in the door frames I had to put in when neighbors kept complaining about the sound of women orgasming too loudly. The ‘tasteful’ black and white nude portraits I have on the walls so I can brag about being a photographer. The spare room I keep as sparse and as non-descript as possible so I can film Bad Boy videos in it.
I walk through the rooms now and feel like a stranger, interpreting the apartment like a first-time guest. Who lives in a place like this? I don’t know, but he doesn’t live here anymore.
My mind goes back to Jessie, back to the party at my dad’s place. The way she glowed at the sight of her old home. The way she was still so connected to it. I looked at it and thought it was just the place she used to live, a run-down bungalow that wasn’t worth the trouble of knocking down. What did she see, though? Warmth, probably. Family, love, trust. All the things I took for granted. Things I never realized I had until I destroyed it all. Things I thought I was too good for, before realizing I was not good enough.
My cell rings and I sprint through the hallway to get at it, diving onto the couch like it’s second base and almost fumbling the phone as I bring it close enough to see who it is.
Dad. Reluctantly, I bring it to my ear.
“Hey,” I say, realizing how croaky I sound.
“Hello, Nate. When’s your lunch break? I’m in your neighborhood.”
“I’m not at work, Dad. I’m at home.”
“Even better! Come and meet me at Toaster’s, then. I’ll treat you to lunch.”
“Dad…” I say, realizing I sound exactly like I did when I was a teenager. “I don’t know if I—”
“You’re coming, and that’s that,” he says, most definitely the way he used to when I was a teenager. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t stick around at my birthday for the cake. We’re long overdue for a little chat.”
Instinctively, a mental stream of excuses begins popping up in my mind. The art form of selecting the best one has been well-honed and perfected through years of experience. But this time I stop myself. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I don’t want to be the guy who’s too good at lying to face himself, too good at deception to ever be called truly honest.
Besides, isn’t the whole idea of family and trust about putting up with the rough as well as the smooth? Well, they don’t come much rougher than my dad.
“Sure,” I say, “I’ll see you there.”
Toaster’s isn’t the kind of place guys in their sixties typically like to eat. It’s a pretty hip place, with a menu full of exotic, overpriced sandwiches (either ‘vegan’ or ‘free-range’), coffees drinks with candy store flavors, and the kind of faux-artisanal dressing that’s far too local-organic-gluten-free to come across as anything other than self-conscious. Most guys my dad’s age would take one look at the place and walk down the street to the old pizza place that sells slices so tasty and cheap you’d almost get suspicious. The kind of clientele Toaster’s attract is a whole lot younger, trendier, and indulgent. That means lots of cute, well-dressed, and fit young women – and thus, my father.
I push through the glass doors and step into the hum and clatter of coffee machines, women’s laughter, and Macbooks being typed on. Heavy reclaimed wood tables sit next to industrial steel chairs. A giant chalkboard listing the daily specials hangs above the counter, and the walls are decorated with old movie posters and hand-written notes.
I notice my dad before he sees me, mainly because he’s exchanging sly winks with a couple of half-terrified giggling women standing near his table in the coffee line. He still dresses pretty well for a guy his age, in a checked shirt with a good cut and flattering jeans - though I know it’s only a by-product of taking so many young women shopping. I step over to his table quickly, before he interprets the waiting women’s laughter as an invitation.