“No...um…” Damn! Now I was stammering. “I don’t think so. It’s just…it’s nothing.”
“Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you!” he yelled.
I took a long, audible breath.
“My ribs are really hurting today,” I lied. “I took Motrin, but it just wasn’t taking the edge off. I think I overdid it when I was working out yesterday and maybe pulled it or something.”
He went completely quiet for a minute.
“The prescription is in my bathroom,” he said softly. “Take one, and one only.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem. Just get some rest tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You have to be in top shape next week, son. You can’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t, Dad. I swear.”
“That’s my boy.”
He hung up.
I wanted a cigarette.
“Fuck.”
I stopped at the end of the street, rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes for a minute, tried to take some deep cleansing breaths or some such shit, and drove home. The house was dark when I got there since the clouds had thickened and there was even some thunder in the distance. I turned on the lights in the kitchen and the living room just to make it a little brighter. Then I went upstairs and into Dad’s bathroom, dumped one of the pain pills into my hand and then into the toilet.
I knew he counted them.
I went into my room, stood there staring into space for a minute, and tried to figure out what the fuck was happening.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d seen after-school specials. I knew a lot of shit about my life was fucked up: my Mom was gone, my Dad had to deal with being a single parent, and I had no real understanding about what a relationship between a man and a woman was supposed to be beyond tab A into slot B. I knew, when it came right down to it, my Dad shouldn’t fucking hit me.
And I knew that he knew it, too.
I had only ever used his guilt on him once before, when I was fifteen and wanted to go to an all-night party at the beach. He said no way because I had to train the next day, and I sulked around until he finally blew up. Then I told him I was supposed to go the prior weekend, but I hadn’t been able to.
I was too bruised to be seen in public.
He let me go.
I felt like shit then, too.
I knew why he acted that way because ultimately, whether he should be doing it or not, whatever pain he inflicted on me was nothing like the mental anguish I had inflicted on him when I killed his wife—the only person he had ever loved. I thought I knew what that was like for him before, since I lost her too, but now that Nicole was around…well, the very idea of anything happening to her was just…unthinkable.
I’d freak out.
I’d go insane.
I’d implode.
I’d probably punch and kick and destroy anyone who came into contact with me, and if I got a hold of the person responsible for hurting her…well, whatever happened wouldn’t be pretty, that was for sure.
I went into the kitchen, thought about eating something, but just grabbed a Gatorade instead. I needed to go to the store; I was almost out of the blue ones. I tilted my head a little so I could see the bottom of the fridge, and it did look a lot better. It reminded me that Nicole was going to come over at some point, and she was going to string me up by my balls.