booth by the windows and the waitress comes around right away to fill our mugs. I don’t even like coffee, but I drink mine too fast, too soon, scalding my tongue because I don’t know what else to do with my hands and it stops my knee from bouncing.
“Guess I should start,” he says.
The second most obnoxious thing about Max is how he always looks like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s family sitcom. He’s one of those perpetually cheerful dads with an upstanding gentleman haircut, plaid oxford shirt, and a vest from an expensive outdoor brand, not that you’ve ever seen the man hike.
Maybe that’s part of it—I can’t take him seriously when he looks like a character from a show I never watched as a kid because we didn’t have cable. Those dads who ruined us for the real men missing from our lives. Kids like me were raised on lies told by TV writers fulfilling the fantasies of their own broken childhoods.
“Obviously, I came out here because we haven’t been able to connect on the phone,” Max continues. “I also thought perhaps this was a discussion we ought to have in person.”
That’s never good. Now I’m thinking I should have had this talk with my mom first. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that given my lack of cooperation, she had no choice but to leave me to Max’s mercy. Cut off financially, no more school, no more house. Set adrift on a raft of my own making.
“I know we haven’t had much communication over the years, Conor. I can take my fair share of the blame for that.” Not quite how I saw this beginning. “I want to start off by saying, while I certainly don’t approve of the actions you took, I can understand why you made the choice you did.”
What?
“I know how at that age emotions get the best of us, and sometimes when outside pressure is applied to just the right spot, we make decisions and act out in ways we might never otherwise. You made a mistake, a big one. You lied. To me, yes, but more importantly to your mother. I know from your first phone call how much that’s weighed on you. And what I find encouraging is that, while it took quite a bit longer than we’d have liked, you admitted your mistake. Now comes the hard part,” he says with a hesitant smile. “Taking responsibility.”
“Have to say, you’re taking this better than I expected,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t fault you for being more on the irate side of things.”
“I admit my initial reaction was surprise. Maybe a little irate came later. Then I thought back to what I was up to when I was nineteen.” The waitress comes back to refill our mugs and he takes a long sip of coffee, as I’m left to guess what sort of trouble Max might have found for himself at Briar in his day. “Point is, I wanted to say that we’re all entitled to a few fuckups.”
I crack a smile at hearing him curse. It’s like the first time you realize that Full House dad also did the raunchiest stand-up comedy.
“I’m glad you told us the truth, Conor, and as far as I’m concerned, we can all move on from the matter.”
“That’s it?” Seriously?
“Well, your mother can’t very well ground a twenty-one-year-old man from the other side of the country,” he says with a grin.
This feels like a trap. “I thought you guys would pull me out of school or at least stop paying tuition.”
“That would seem counterproductive, don’t you think? How does interrupting your college education serve as a constructive punishment?”
“I assumed there’d be some instinct to cut me off. Financially.” It’d be more than fair considering what I did to him. The fact is, my entire livelihood is wrapped up in Max’s bank account. He supports all of us. It’s not a stretch to think he might reconsider that arrangement.
“Conor, perhaps there’s some kind of wisdom in telling you to go find a job and work eighty hours a week to still not make enough to pay rent and finish school—if you were someone else. But nobody needs to tell you how tough it is out there or the value of a dollar. Least of all me.” He sets down his mug. “You and your mother have experienced enough hardship. It wouldn’t sit well inflicting any more, and the truth is, whatever