Click to Subscribe - By L. M. Augustine Page 0,29
In a way, I kind of feel bad for the man. He’s clearly lost, and whether or not that’s because of Mom’s death or his own stupidity, I have no idea and nor do I care.
“Wow, so generous of you,” I mutter. “If that’s the case, then maybe you can try being a normal grown-up for once in your life and—I don’t know—make your own dinner.”
“Are you calling me lazy?” he says, sipping his coffee cup which we both know is just hiding more beer.
“No, I’m just calling you useless. There’s a difference.” I take another bite of my macaroni, sighing to myself. I don’t like that this is what Dad and I have become, this empty, lifeless trading of insults, but what else is there? It’s better than screaming, right?
Even screaming, though, means we care. It means we’re fighting to find a way to be father and son again, for real. But this? This is like we’ve both given up, and I guess, in a way, I have.
“You’re a complete waste,” he mutters.
“Of what? Your precious free time?” I push my bowl to the side and hop off the counter. I’m suddenly not hungry anymore.
I can feel his gaze on me, dark and calculating. “You better shut the hell up and show me some respect, West. After all, I’m your father.”
I laugh lightly and walk toward the door. “Yeah. My father and respect aren’t words that seem to go well together.”
“They work fine for me. Much better than ‘my son,’ at least,” Dad says without looking at me. I can see his fists, though; they’re curled around his coffee cup. Tightly. It looks like he’s trying to squeeze the ceramic until it breaks.
I shake my head, wanting to punch him in the face right then and there but holding the feeling down instead. “Good to talk to you too,” I mutter, hop off the counter, and walk into the family room. I sit down, slamming the door shut behind me, with a bad taste in my mouth and a sick feeling in my stomach. The family room is a small room adjacent to the kitchen, complete with fading gray walls, a small sofa, and a TV sitting in the center. We used to spend so much time here, my mom and I, but now it appears to be more of a storage room than anything else, with bin after bin of random supplies stacked all around it.
As soon as I sit down, I turn on the TV to some random station, but I don’t pay attention. I just stare blankly at the screen, my eyes glazing over. Fuck. This is really what I’m reduced to. Running and hiding from everyone I know, and retreating to… what? The TV? To my own misery? I have no one now—not my dad, not my mom, not even Cat—and it’s all my fault: because I’m an idiot, because I keep telling myself that if I try to love anything else ever again, they’re just going to end up like Mom—dead, along with my heart. I can’t take that anymore.
For a minute, I just sit there and I think about Cat, who is probably off and making new friends and totally forgetting about me. I can’t push her away, not over something this stupid. I can’t screw up my life any more than I have.
Then, it hits me. I need to fix this.
Before I know what I’m doing, I reach for my computer, click over to my email, and begin typing. I click send without reading it over, and proceed to constantly refresh my inbox until I get a response, afraid I won’t even get one.
from: West Ryder
to: Cat Davenport
subject: (no subject)
Dear Your Highness of All Things Chocolate,
It has come to my attention that your subject, West Ryder, has been temporarily banished from your chocolate kingdom due to his “asshole behavior.” I’ve recently been in contact with said criminal, and it seems he can’t stop thinking about how stupid he acted and now all he wants is to get you back. So he wishes for me to deliver you this real apology. He says that even if you don’t accept, Your Highness of All Things Chocolate, he wants to thank you… for everything you’ve done for him. Anyway, here it is:
Dear Your Highness of All Things Chocolate,
I am sorry for insulting your chocolate-centric palace and for leaving you so abruptly. I am sorry we fought over which chocolate is best—obviously dark chocolate—and