But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “Do you want me to tell you a secret?”
His eyes shift back and forth between my own and then he nods.
“I’ve never in my life felt like I belonged anywhere. I’m moving to California because I’m hoping I’ll belong there.”
A crease appears between his eyebrows, like a question mark.
“I’ve never felt like my home was really my home. Not after my dad left, not after my mom had my brothers and sisters. Kansas City has always felt like this place that I endure.”
His lips part, his breath escaping in a cloud of steam, before he says, “That’s it. That’s the feeling. Like there’s no such thing as home.”
I just nod, too. He understands. He gets it. He feels it, too. Of course he does.
His hand comes up, slowly, and I think maybe he’ll touch me, a hand on my arm or a fingertip across my cheek. But he doesn’t. His hand falls to his side again, and I shiver, like he’s taken the heat away without giving it to me in the first place.
“Let me play you something,” he says, and it feels strange in this moment, bringing up our stupid contest when the air around us feels heavy with earnestness. But I don’t stop him. He takes out his phone and picks a song, and I wonder if he chose it before we came here or if it’s a spur of the moment decision.
Maybe it should be awkward, standing right here, with the moan coming off the statue still loud beneath the careful chords of the music coming out of Oliver’s phone, which he holds up between us, flat on his palm. But it isn’t awkward. It’s lovely.
I don’t tell him that I already know the band, Nothing But Thieves, and that I’ve listened to this song on a dozen different occasions. Because standing here with him, the cold turning the tip of my nose numb, I’m certain I’ve never heard it like this.
The song is short, only two and a half minutes, and when the singer’s voice cracks with desperation, I feel an odd urge to cry. I press my hand to the sculpture again, and somehow, it feels like it’s vibrating with the song. When I look up at Oliver, I could swear his eyes are watery, too, but I’m certain it’s from the bite of the cold wind.
When the song is over, I smile up at Oliver. “You’re not going to win tonight.”
He laughs and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “I should take you home,” he says, his voice a whisper, and then we’re slipping our way back to his truck, and even though his secret isn’t the scar he thinks it is, he’s right. It changes things.
OLIVER
I JERK AWAKE on Friday morning when I hear someone knocking on the front door. The sun is up, but I can tell by the odd way that it’s slanted into my room that it’s way too early for someone to be visiting.
And yet, they knock again.
I climb out of bed and stumble into the living room. The house is cold and silent, Mom’s bedroom door shut. She worked another night shift at the hospital, and I can’t remember when her shift ended so I can’t tell if she’s asleep or if she hasn’t made it home yet.
I should have known when I heard the banging exactly who it is. The apartment I share with my mom never sees visitors. No girls, no friends, no coworkers. I’m not even positive that anyone knows where I live. And so, I should have known exactly who it is.
I sigh, looking out at Dad from the open doorway. “What do you want?” I ask him, surprised that he even knows the world exists before noon. I’m not sure he’s ever seen it.
Well, except for when I had to pick him up from the police station.
Dad grips the doorjamb, and I don’t miss the way he slips his foot into the corner of the doorway, just in case I’m tempted to slam the door in his face. “I just want to talk to you, Oli. Can I take you out for breakfast?”
And that’s how I end up sitting across from my father at Charlie’s, watching him devour pancakes, dripping with syrup.
“What do you want to talk about?” I demand. I have an omelet sitting on the plate in front of me, but I’m not feeling much like eating. In fact, the smell of the eggs is making me queasy.
My dad’s fork drops to his plate. “Oli, I’m—” He breaks off and looks away, at the cast wrapped around my arm. “I’m sorry about what happened. It was my fault, and I know that. I know that you shouldn’t have been there, picking my ass up off the concrete.” He grits his teeth, and when he speaks again, he chokes over his words. “I didn’t mean this for you, Oli. It kills me that you got hurt. That I put you in harm’s way.” He digs his fingertips into his chest, his shirt wrinkling around them. And when he looks up at me, there are tears in his eyes.
I steel myself against it. What else can I do? Dad has been hurting me my whole life. When he got so drunk he stumbled home from the bars every night, when he got so drunk he started fights, when he got so drunk Mom couldn’t bear to look at him. He was always hurting me. How is this, this stupid cast and the dented bumper on my truck, any different than it was before?
My father’s bloodshot eyes find me, and he moves fast, reaching across the table and gripping my hands over the top of it, so hard it hurts. “I can’t lose you, Oli. I can’t. You’re the only good thing in my life. Tell me what to do. Just tell me what to do to fix this.”
I look down at where he has a hold on me. One of his big hands spans across half the words Amy wrote on my cast. I think about her looking up at me in that courtyard, the same courtyard I carried Dad out of, snowflakes landing in her long eyelashes. I want to be back there with her, in that place that was just the two of us, where we could whisper secrets to each other that no one else could understand.
I pull my hands out from under his, sliding them back toward me on the tabletop. “You need help,” I tell him. “You want to fix this? You want to see me again? You go to A.A. You see a counselor. I don’t care which. But you need help. Or this is over for good.”
His eyes go wide, and his surprise mirrors my own, even if I refuse to show it. I wasn’t planning to serve him up an ultimatum, but here we are. And I mean it. I’ve done a lot for him. I’ve spent the past ten years being his crutch, his very reason for living, as he tells me again and again. But I’m tired of being responsible for him. I’m tired of being the only adult in this relationship. So it’s time for him to buck up or find someone else to pick him up from Hassey’s.
Dad’s hands fall to his lap, and I see the conflict on his face. What was he expecting me to tell him? That what he’s doing is enough? That he doesn’t have to change? That life can go on as it always has, even after I got my damn arm broken trying to get him home in the middle of the night?
Yeah. That’s exactly what he was expecting.
But for the past few days, my mind has been flashing back to the look on Amy’s face when I told her I don’t want college. I was expecting revulsion, I was expecting disappointment, disgust, even confusion. But instead, she looked at me with respect, and it felt so damn good, and it’s enough. For now, it’s enough that someone like Amy respects me and my choices. I don’t need Dad’s approval, too.
Maybe I don’t need Mom’s, either.