Page 25 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Me: Nope.

Vince: Let me know.

Me: Okay.

Then it all starts again the next day. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually cared about me. But I suspect he feels bad for me. Like he did back when we were kids. Back when I was the clinger little sister and he felt guilty because Ray was ignoring me. Vince always gave me this look, like he knew how badly I wanted to hang out with him and usually found a way to make it up to me with stolen moments that made my teenage heart flutter. Eating ice cream together right out of the container late one night or tugging on my ponytail as he ducked out the back door to go hop in the car with Raymond. Always checking in with me.

And he’s doing the same thing now. Making sure I’m not ignored.

Warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart.

Enough that I contemplate texting him. Telling him I need him. Need someone to talk to about my appointment, but I shove away the idea. We aren’t kids anymore.

The last month has thrown me headfirst into adulthood, and I can’t put my head in the clouds over texts from the boy I used to love. Instead, I head home and crack open some windows to let in the unseasonably warm spring air.

As usual, Mom’s in bed with the curtains closed over the windows, while Dad is tucked away in the office, doing I don’t know what. So I leave for work without saying goodbye to either of them, and at quarter of eleven when I get home, not much has changed since I left except Dad has moved to the living room, where he’s lounged with a glass of vodka. I only know it’s vodka because the bottle is next to his feet.

I drop my purse by the door where I deposit my shoes. “Hey, Dad.” He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I sit on the couch opposite him anyway. “I didn’t know you drank vodka.”

“I don’t.” He rotates his glass upside down, showing me it’s empty. “I’m going to go to the store,” he says, standing up with a wobble.

“How much did you drink?” I ask because I’ve never seen my dad drunk before. I’ve witnessed him have a beer or two in the summertime and a glass of wine here and there, but that’s it.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, moving toward the closet, his gait loose like he’s trying not to melt into the floor.

I easily beat him to the closet, blocking him. “What do you want? Everything’s closed now.”

He blinks owlishly at me. “No, I need to replace the bottle. Your mother’ll be mad.”

“She won’t even notice,” I say, and when he reaches around me, I step in his way again. “Really, you don’t need to go out.”

“No, Cassandra. Move.”

He nudges me out of the way and opens the closet for his coat, which he clumsily puts on.

I hang on to the sleeve. “Okay, well, how about I drive you? Where do you want to go? I’ll take you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need you to take me anywhere.” He coasts his unfocused gaze over me. “Especially dressed like that.”

With St. Patrick’s Day coming up, the work uniform has altered slightly from a white top to a green one with shamrocks placed strategically on my chest. I changed into yoga pants before I left work, but apparently it’s still not appropriate for my drunk dad.

He pats his coat pockets for his keys, and when they aren’t there, he studies the space around him. I skid past him to the kitchen, where a catchall woven basket is on the counter, and I snatch his keys out, hiding them behind my back. Dad eventually lumbers to the kitchen and shoos me out of the way. When he discovers his keys aren’t in the basket, his face changes from tipsy annoyance to intoxicated anger while staring at me. He silently holds his palm up, his fingers curling in to gesture for the keys, but I’m not backing down.

“You shouldn’t drive like this,” I tell him.

“I will drive whenever I goddamn well please.”

“No.”

He attempts to grab them from behind me, but I hop out of the way like we’re playing some kind of game.

“Cassandra, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Right now, I do. I can smell the vodka on you. And believe it or not, you don’t get to drive like this.”

He lunges for the keys again, but his balance is all off and he isn’t anywhere close to my hand. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I am your daughter,” I say slowly.

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