Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
“That’s assuming an awful lot,” I state quite calmly to him, despite his grip turning my wrist numb, despite how deadly close he is. “For one, that you deserve any of my respect at all.”
“I pay for this house,” he says. “I paid for that sandwich you just made. I paid for the bread, the peanut butter, the very clothes you’ve got on your ungrateful ass. I paid for that shed you live in. I paid for that computer you play your little games on. I paid for the paint you just wasted in my garage.” His grip tightens to the point that it’s painful. I don’t so much as flinch. “I think I deserve at least the minimal amount of respect a breadwinner deserves, who makes the life you live possible.”
“Did you look at it?”
His eyes twitch with confusion. “Huh?”
“My painting. In your garage. Did you look at it?”
Carl’s grip on my wrist loosens, yet he keeps hold of it. “The hell does that matter if I looked at it or not? ‘Course I looked at it. It’s the only damned thing you can see.”
“I mean really look at it. The way one looks at a painting.”
“Who the hell you think you are, boy? Mozart? I don’t give a shit what the painting is. You had no damned business—”
“Mozart is a composer. And the point is, if you had bothered to open your tiny eyes …” Suddenly, whatever point I was about to make splits open like a flower, revealing an even bigger picture. “If you had bothered to ever open your eyes, or your heart, to who I am, who your stepson is … If you had learned to embrace my ‘arty’ side you can’t stand, we could have had a shot of developing a real relationship. I could have been calling you ‘Dad’ for years.” My eyes harden. “And maybe instead of holding my wrist like you are, you’d be holding my hand.”
There is a precious moment between us right now, Carl and me, where my words seem to have touched him. And in this tiny, fleeting moment, Carl sees a life he could have had with me. A life where he observes my paintings in the garage with a smile. Where he pushes me to join Art clubs, then raises hell up at the school when the mayor and the school board cut funding to the Arts. He sees a less angry version of himself, a version who visits my shed more than once a year, who invests time in getting to know me, who wants to know who I’m seeing at school.
A version of Carl who could have been here for me, even now, when my heart is at its weakest.
Then he shatters the vision the very next instant with a smirk of disgust. “My eyes are wide open, boy. And I see now why your own deadbeat dad couldn’t bother to stick around long enough for your sixth birthday. Twelve years haven’t made you a man. They made you a wimpy, friendless loser with unfulfilled dreams.”
“And what if YOU’RE the friendless loser with unfulfilled dreams, DAD?”
I turn to the unexpected source of the question in shock. Lee, my stepbrother, has come fully into the kitchen now, and his dull eyes aren’t dull at all: they’re fuming. Carl, still gripping my wrist, turns his stunned face to his son, baffled and speechless.
My stepbrother shakes his head. “You never wanted to be a mechanic. Everyone at the shop hates you. All your old drinking buddies can’t stand you. YOU’RE the friendless loser, stuck in a life you don’t want, with no drive anymore to chase your own dreams. That’s why you drink yourself to sleep every night.”
“Boy …” Carl is visibly wounded by his son’s words. “The hell this comin’ from?”
Tears fill Lee’s eyes, tears in a set of eyes I have never seen express any emotion my whole life. “I suck at football. I’m clumsy. I’m big and … uncoordinated. Everyone knows it, too. Even Coach Strong, despite all the chances he keeps givin’ me.” Carl starts to say something, but Lee talks over him. “Why’s it always up to you what everyone does with their lives, Dad? Who put you in charge like that? Why ain’t you ever listenin’ to me about what I want?”
“Son …” Carl, genuinely struck, finally lets go of my wrist to face his son completely. “What are you talkin’ about? I never—”
“I went to Toby’s play.”
Now that even has me staring at Lee in shock, my qualms with Carl momentarily forgotten.
“It’s where I went that Sunday of that weekend,” he explains. “I didn’t go to Doug’s house like I said I was. I … went to the play.” His foot starts fidgeting in place. It isn’t easy for him to admit this for some reason. “And I … I actually liked it. A lot. I thought … I-I thought Toby was really good in it. I’d never seen him like that. He was so good that … that I forgot who he was. I forgot he was Toby.” Lee drags his eyes off the floor and meets his father’s. “It even got me wondering if I should do something like that, too. I used to play make-believe in the backyard. Remember that, Dad? I used to play make-believe. Maybe football isn’t my—”