me home for three days before I joined my roommates—Jules and Katie—their boyfriends, and a large group of friends for a ski trip. The tension in this house was unbearable; I couldn't stay. I guess it was unbearable for her too. Her single message a day after she left was a text with two words. "I'm tired."
Tired my ass. Tired of Dad? Of me? Of Rossview? We didn't know. We still don't, but if 'tired' meant emptying a bank account, selling off valuables, and leaving a trail of men she'd screwed behind, then damn straight she was tired.
Now I'm tired. For as far as my memories run, Dad's had a problem with sobriety. My entire life, he's been a drinker, but on his own time. He contained it. He never missed work or school functions, and he showed up to the football games I cheered at without fail. He worked hard and took care of us. He was a functional alcoholic, but the older I became, the more I saw. By the time we wound up in Rossview the summer before my freshman year of high school, I was covering for him, cleaning up after him, putting him to bed, and lying and hiding things when he asked, all while telling myself he loves us.
"No more." My voice cracks as I drop to my knees and search beneath his bed. "I did not come home for you to continue this downward spiral."
At twenty-one, reconciling that love—what he did for us versus what my younger self did for him—is difficult. What Mom dealt with … blaming her for leaving is hard, considering, but she never helped him either. She let him drink until he was incoherent and passed out. Why? So she could do as she pleased? I don't understand either of them.
My shirt bunches across my chest as Dad fists the material and yanks me backward until I'm sprawled on my butt and gaping.
His face is flushed red, and his eyes are as crazed as I imagine mine are. "I do not need you running my life."
"No?" I scramble to place distance between us. He doesn't scare me, he's never hit me, never hit Mom—that I know of—but frustration emanates from his brooding body. "Look at this place. Look at you." I fling my arms around.
He cringes at my shouts, but what sets me off is the coffee mug he clings to like a damn lifeline. Where in the hell do the contents come from?
Jumping to my feet, I throw his glare in his face. "Where's the liquor?"
My gaze follows his, hoping for a tell, a hint. He has a stellar poker face. Even when drunk, he's never given up his secrets. I can't lie for shit, but my parents are experts.
He tosses his head and downs the contents of his mug before I have the awareness to stop him. "There. All gone."
"Dammit." I punch my thigh in frustration. "You promised you would stop drinking."
"It was a splash, Jess, like I said. Leftover from last night. There's nothing left in the house."
Last night? "What do you mean last night?"
He averts his face, and I peer around his bedroom with new eyes. The contents of my stomach swirling. Did he have a woman over? Is that where his alcohol comes from when he runs out of money? For his many shortcomings, Paul Womick is a handsome man, even when drunk and disheveled. There are lonely women in this town, women with the means to provide Dad with his vice if he gives them theirs.
"Dad—" The noxious stench of burning eggs cuts me off. Rushing for the kitchen, I find the air filled with smoke, and his breakfast so charred the remnants are ready to ignite into flames. I push the pan off the burner and turn the stove off, choking on the thick waves rolling through the air as I crack the window over the kitchen sink. The house will reek like smoke and be a sauna, thanks to this Texas heat. Propping the glass storm door open, I drop onto the chair on the small slab of concrete we call a back patio and draw my legs to my chest.
My eyes itch. How do I do this? I want to throw in the towel, and I’ve only been home for seven and a half days.
Carter
"What do you think?" Owen asks as we walk along the driveway toward my car parked on the street.