“Okay. Want to put me on speaker and turn on some music while you study?”
I smile up at the ceiling. Sometimes, Jackson can be so perfect. “Really? You hate my music.”
“Just pick something good.”
So I turn on James Arthur, put Jackson on speaker, and start studying.
OLIVER
WE’RE ALWAYS LATE to church. It’s like a curse or something. Every Sunday, without fail, I sit by the front door of our apartment, waiting patiently for my mom to emerge from her bedroom, dressed in her finest clothes.
I don’t really have fine clothes, so I just wear my nicest pair of jeans.
This Sunday is no different, and we pull up in front of the church fifteen minutes after service has already started. Mom’s heels clack loudly against the pavement as we rush up to the door, and I hold it open for her just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I sigh and reach in to get it, fully prepared for it to be Brooke asking if I can open the shop because someone called in sick.
But it isn’t Brooke. It’s my dad.
“Oli?” My mom stands half in and half out of the church, her face full of concern.
“It’s Dad.”
Aggravation overtakes the concern. “Now? It’s ten in the morning.”
“Sorry. Maybe it’s nothing. Go ahead without me.”
She sends me a look that says we’re thinking the same thing: With Dad, it’s never nothing. She hesitates, and then she finally turns and goes inside. My phone is still ringing, and now I have no excuse not to answer.
“Oliver,” my dad says before I’ve even said a word. “Bad news, kid. I need a ride home.”
I’m a little confused. Usually, when my dad needs a ride, it’s at two in the morning on a Sunday, and I can barely understand what he’s saying between the alcohol and his Scottish accent, which incidentally gets stronger when mixed with Jack Daniels. And sometimes, it isn’t even him calling. My father changed my name to simply SON in his contacts list, and ever since, I’ve been getting calls from bartenders to tell me Dad has passed out in one bar or another.
Never has my father called me at ten in the morning on a Sunday, and never has he sounded so sober.
“Where are you?” I ask. Out in the parking lot, a nice-looking man and woman are each holding the hand of a toddler as they all three tiptoe across the pavement. I hold the door open for them and then step away.
“Well, that’s the bad part. I’m at the jailhouse in Independence.”
“What?”
“It’s no big deal. Got in a bit of a brawl last night at Hassey’s. But I’m good now. I’m out. I just need a ride home.”
I grit my teeth and glance back at the church. Mom is alone inside. “Can’t you take the bus?”
“No money.”
“So, walk.”
“Come on, Oli. Just come get me.”
“I’m busy right now. I’m supposed to be in service with Mom.”
My father laughs into the phone, a breathy laugh that I don’t find particularly amusing. “She’s still got you doin’ that codswallop, huh?”
Does this feel like groveling in his mind? Is this how he asks for things nicely? I don’t say anything. I’m not going to defend Mom. I don’t need to.
His laughter dies. “Oli, come on. Come get me. The world is still spinnin’ a little. I don’t know if I’ll make it home.”
I sigh and hang up without answering. He can stew and wonder if I’m going to show up or not. I roll my eyes at the thought. He knows I’ll show up. I always show up. I want to not care about my dad. I’ve been picking him up from seedy bars and strangers’ apartments and questionable clubs since I got my learner’s permit, and no matter how much I want to, I can never say no to him.
I’m at the station in half an hour. When I get there, my father sits on a bench outside the front door, scowling up at the sun like it’s personally offended him. He looks pathetic, sitting there, shivering in his brown leather jacket, his red hair, the hair I inherited, gleaming bright. He’s paler than usual, and I’m certain it’s the first time he’s been hungover on a Sunday morning instead of still drunk from the night before.
When I reach out to help him off the bench, pulling up until he wraps a hand around my shoulder, a police officer props open the glass door of the station. “Fergus,” he says, “I don’t want to see you back here again.” He turns to me and hands me a card. “It’s a damn shame,” he says, and goes back inside without another word.
My father is already halfway to my car, completely unconcerned with what’s going on. I look down at the card in my hand. It’s a business card with the name, address, and meeting times of an Alcoholics Anonymous group. When I finally look away from it, my father is pulling impatiently at the door handle of my truck. I press the unlock button on my key ring and then climb into the driver’s seat. It’s then that I notice the piece of paper in my father’s hand.
Without asking, I reach across the console and snatch it away from him.
“Dammit, Oli,” he growls, but he doesn’t try to get it back from me.
I read over the paperwork, my cheeks heating in anger as I take it all in. I finally slam it against the steering wheel, blaring the horn in the process. “A court date?” I demand. “Are you kidding?”
My father rolls his eyes and puts on his seat belt. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I wave the paper in his face, but I know he’s already read it. “This is a court date. That means the guy you beat up is pressing charges against you. You could go to jail just for being a fucking idiot.”
My father chews on his nails. “Oli, it’s really too early in the morning for fuck, okay? They’re not gonna put me in jail.”
I scoff. “Why not? Because you’re such an upstanding citizen? You have a record. Why would they go easy on you?”
His eyes slide over to mine. He makes a weird face, and then he reaches over and snatches the card that’s still in my hand. “What’s that then?”
I pull out of the parking lot while he reads the card. He laughs and rolls his window down before tossing the card out.
OLIVER
THE APARTMENT IS silent when I get home that night. The apartment is always silent when I get home. I never work on Sundays, but after dealing with my dad this morning, I needed to be at Spirits.
“Mom?” I call out, and my voice echoes in the living room. We’ve been living in this apartment for almost four years, but Mom still hasn’t put anything on the walls.
There’s no answer. I take my wallet and keys out of my pockets and drop them on the table by the front door. Mom must be working the late shift at the hospital. Not surprising.
I drop down on the couch and turn on the TV. My stomach rumbles, but there’s no way I’m cooking right now, so instead I pull out my phone and order a pizza.
On the coffee table is a stack of college brochures, all of them with my name on the delivery address. I’m almost positive that Mom already went through them before she went to work, and I press the heel of my sneaker on the top brochure to slide it away. Underneath is an almost identical brochure for a different college.