Page 72 of It's Complicated

Eventually I got my shit together and moved to town to try and set down roots. I’d done my mechanic's training, gotten hired at the garage, and hadn’t looked back.

To anyone else, that was a success story. To my parents, it was an epic failure.

Not even a brain injury and losing the one thing in my life that made me happy was a good enough excuse to take ten months off from school or working and being a productive member of society.

“At least you’re presentable this time.” He paused as our server came up to the table, our drinks on his tray.

“It’s nice to see you’ve managed to fix that after all these years,” he added once the server was out of earshot.

I didn’t bother telling him I was wearing Jamie’s work clothes. I had a couple of dress shirts and one pair of slacks, and none of them fit me properly. The only suit in my closet was from when I was playing hockey in college, and I only owned one dress shoe, the other being MIA for the past year and a half.

All of my clothes had been purchased for either comfort or because they were good for going out. I didn’t need business clothes in my line of work, and I didn’t particularly like wearing them, so I didn’t own any.

But he didn’t need to know that.

“How have you been?” I asked, completely ignoring his digs at my appearance.

“Good. Everything is good.”

“That’s good.”

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed.

What did it say about us that my dad and I couldn’t even exchange pleasantries without it being stilted and awkward?

“Have you seen your mother recently?”

I sighed inwardly. I’d expected this question, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.

My parents didn’t talk or communicate unless it was through lawyers, or me when they were being extra passive-aggressive.

“Not recently. The last time I spoke to her was on her birthday.”

“It’s a miracle you tracked her down,” he said bitterly. “I’ve never met anyone who makes as big a deal about their birthday as your mother.”

He wasn’t wrong on that one. My mother was the type who didn’t have one or two birthday celebrations. She had several over the course of a week and always went away for a few days with some of her girlfriends.

I didn’t bother mentioning that I hadn’t heard from either of them on my birthday since I turned eighteen.

Instead I sat quietly, waiting for him to change the subject. After twenty years of being in the middle of their crap, I was done with it.

He sipped his drink. “How is James?”

My father refused to call Jamie by his nickname and insisted on calling him James, even though no one else did. I’d stopped correcting him years ago.

“He’s good.” I made sure to keep my face and voice neutral. The last thing I needed was for my dad to figure out something was going on between us.

My dad wasn’t homophobic as far as I knew, but I was already a giant disappointment. I didn’t need to add potentially being queer and messing around with my male best friend to the list of things I’d fucked up in his eyes.

“And I suppose you’re still working at the garage?”

“I am.” I didn’t elaborate or talk up the shop. He wouldn’t listen.

“Have you at least considered taking some classes at Rutherford? You can still finish your degree part-time.”

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