Page 59 of Break Your Fall

“Well. I’m glad to see you’re okay this time,” Dad says, a care in his voice that makes me meet his eyes. “Maybe don’t tell your mom.” I snort as he moves, the couch dipping as he sits beside me. I shift slightly and immediately feel bad about it. “What brought this on?”

This.It could be because I don’t wantthisconversation to come around again, it could be because I’m still hungover, too tired, and wanting to be left alone, but I finally feel ready to disappoint my father, clear the table to make room for the next hard thing to swallow. So I tell him, “I used to have so much fun, Dad. I used to be happy.”

He stares, his face conveying no emotion toward my confession as he asks, “How are you not happy? You have a great life and an even greater one ahead of you.” Resentment coats his words that he, himself, is losing control of his happiness, and he’s taking that out on me, as I knew he would. He’s not the only one who’s most likely having to start his life over.

“I used to be happy with abasketballin my hands,” I make clear, tumbling through another confession, my hands out in front of me, wrapped around an invisible ball. I can feel the leather, its ridges, its firm weight between my palms from having held on to one for a big chunk of my life. “Everything feels like work now. I’m gonna have enough work to do in college and I don’t want thethingI love to be work, too.”

My dad stares, the same emotionless expression, and I wait. I wait for him to tell me that careers aren’t meant to be fun. If they were, they wouldn’t be calledwork. I wait for him to tell me that a career in basketball is going to be the most lucrative one I’m getting the chance to have. I wait for him to accuse me of throwing it all away, wasting my talents.

I wait for all this so I can then tell him that maybe I don’t want basketball to be my career anymore. I wait to tell him that maybe I just want to love it again. To play ball when I want to play ball, on my own terms and conditions.

I wait, and what I get from him is distance. First, it’s the physical distance of him standing and moving for the door. Then, it’s the mental and emotional distance as he pretends like I never said anything at all.

“Come see your mom,” he says, his tone low, head angled down. “She misses you at the house—”

“Dad,” I cut in, the guilt churning my stomach sounding through my voice.

“—and you haven’t come by in a while.”

“Dad,” I say again, my voice now conflicting as it tugs at him to stay while also sending him away.

Well, I got what I’d wanted. He’s gone, and I’m alone. Rejected until my father works himself up enough and turns the arguments over to me.

I move to the kitchen to make some breakfast for my head, thinking the preparation could be a good distraction until my real distraction struts back in from the hall.

“Todd, is he gone?”

“Todd moved out,” I say as I reach for a plate from the cupboard.

“You’re right here,” Banks says back, then looks toward the front door, releasing a relieved sigh when he sees my dad has left.

I’m not connecting with this guy. I can agree with everyone on the sentiment.

My eyes take in the random grabbings of food Banks has set out on the bar while my nose unwittingly breathes in a smell akin to a dead animal. “Is that a fart candle?” I blurt out with a scrunched nose as my stare lands on a small burning candle in the corner of the bar.

“No,” Banks says as he steps closer, and I step back, closer to the candle. “I farted. It’s vanilla,” he informs me and I finally catch the scent—familiar and conjuring memories.

“Why are you into candles?” My voice carries a sudden tone as I toss out the question, grabbing for the air freshener from under the sink to spray the area.

Banks waves his hands through the spray. “Why not?” I aim the bottle at his head and he jerks back with his hands shielding his face. “Watch out!”

“You’re gonna burn the place down.”

“I’m not gonna burn—” He goes for the candle and it almost slips from his grip before he catches it. My stare is hard as he faces me with his mouth shaped into a wide O. “All I have to do is not touch them,” he argues for himself, but my hard stare holds. “Fine,” he concedes with a grunt. “No candles.” He blows out the flame, and the real question that caused my earlier tone finally comes out as I set the spray bottle in its new location on top of the bar.

“Have you been talking to Shelby?”

“Who?” Banks says with a face.

“Sheila.” I say the wrong name just knowing it will click in his head.

“Oh, her,” he pipes up.Wow.I don’t actually believe that worked until he says, “Well, I didn’t offer your exmycandle, but I could have, so keep that look to yourself,” he orders with a point of his finger before swinging it toward the candle. “But yeah, that’s from her.”

“She wouldn’t have even if you had, and what are you doing with all my food?”

“Expanding my diet,” he states with pride before launching into an explanation I know I asked for, but don’t want to stand here and listen to. “I found this Website of weird food combinations, and dude. We gotta go shopping.” He beams with excitement at the thought, then shakes his head down at my food like it’s subpar.

I shake my head back. I’d still rather bond with a turd.

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