try to make it his actual profession, decades later. I don’t know—but I do know that these days, I can’t tell who sucks more: my dad, who hangs out in his pajamas all day, or my mom, who is never home.
I nod and give my dad a tight-lipped smile.
“C’mon,” I say to Conor.
His head is bouncing back and forth between me and my dad like he’s watching a tennis match he wishes he could figure out how to turn off, and when I address him, he hops right off the stool.
“Yup. Yeah. Ready. Let’s go.”
“Gwen home?” My dad’s still trying to engage with me. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Upstairs.” I point to the ceiling, like maybe I can magically beam him up there, away from me. “Gotta go.”
“All right, well, see you later? Don’t get home too late.”
I roll my eyes, because the last time either of my parents actually cared when I got home was back in eighth grade. I could disappear off the face of the earth and they probably wouldn’t notice until Gwen needed something and no one was there to help her. I shoot him a sarcastic thumbs-up and walk out of the kitchen.
As I put my hand on the knob of the front door, I hear him call softly down the hall, “Love you, kid.” I flare my nostrils and pull the door open so fast that it shakes on its hinges.
I look back at Conor. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He nods, and for once, he follows me as I walk out the front door.
I’m sitting in the kitchen of my house waiting for Lucy to pick me up to go to this dumb band audition, when it happens. I hear the garage door grind open and the hum of a car engine, which shuts off a few moments later. I glance over at the clock on the microwave: it’s only five p.m. Way too early for my mom to get home. But unless a stranger has obtained the remote to our garage, it has to be her…or my dad. My stomach twists into a knot and I push away the bagel I just toasted. I’m tempted to bolt back up to my room, but Lucy will be here any minute, so instead I bury my face in my phone and pretend to be fascinated by my Instagram feed.
The door from the garage to the kitchen opens, and I hear loud voices, arguing. I’m so surprised to hear two voices instead of one that I look up, and there they are: both of my parents, together. I have no idea what in the fuck is happening; I haven’t seen them together in approximately six months. My mom comes home still, but late, usually after I’ve gone to bed. We don’t really talk. My dad…I barely see him. Six months ago, my parents sat me down and told me that the latest show my dad was producing was filming out in Palm Desert and he was going to need to spend some time out there for a while. A while…that’s dragged on, and on, and on.
And on.
I don’t know if he’s still living there. And I really don’t care. All I know is he doesn’t come home.
I can’t make out most of what they’re saying; I just catch some angry words from my dad: “We need to talk about potentially moving forward with a suit. I need you to get on board, Joan, before…”
I drop my head back down. I try to make myself as small as possible, hope that maybe a hole will open up and suck me into the pits of hell.
Hell couldn’t possibly be worse than what’s happening in this kitchen.
Their voices quiet; they must see me. I hold my breath, praying that they’ll walk right by, act like I don’t exist like they normally do. My skin prickles. I can’t help myself; I look up again just in time to see my dad’s back, walking away. My mom’s standing by the stove, leaning against the counter, shoulders hunched. Even from across the