Page 76 of Breaking Point

There’s a beat of silence before he nods. “O’course. Come on in.”

The path to the kitchen feels like a mile. I flip the lights on, unsurprised to find the kitchen in an organized sense of disarray. Piles of takeout dishes are neatly stacked on the counter. The trash is full. A pine candle flickers on the counter, barely masking the smell.

“Is everything alright, Button?” he says, and at the nickname, I feel my heart squeeze a little more.

I remember when he told me how he came up with it. I have the same button nose as my mother’s.

His little Button. His little girl.

I turn to look at him- at the dark circles beneath his eyes and the disheveled state of his clothes. I wonder if maybe I’ve been too tired- too self-absorbed- to notice until now.

“Why don’t you sit, Dad?”

He does, pulling out a chair at the island. “You’re scaring me. Is this about last night? I heard there was a fire, but I wasn't sure whether-” He glances at my bandaged hand, eyes wide. “What happened??”

“I burned my hand, but I’m okay. This isn’t about that, Dad.” I sigh, unsure of how to start. “We need to talk about something else.”

He chuckles, tensing uneasily. “What did I do this time?”

“I know how hard things have been since Mom died,” I start, watching as he swallows. He adjusts, his leg bouncing anxiously. “I know because I lost her too. I know because it wasn’t even two years ago that I would drive at all hours ofthe night when you called. Or when the casinos called. Or the police.”

“Button,” he sighs on a laugh. “I’ve been doing better, haven’t I? It’s been… It’s been years since I stepped foot in a casino. You- You haven’t had to come pick me up in a long time.”

“I know,” I whisper sadly.

Because I can see it now: My dad is an addict. An addict I thought had the will and the determination to beat this on his own when I moved out. Now I see the truth.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “What is this, Button? I’m- I’m good. We’re good-“

“The other night at Midsummers… You bumped into me.” I see the cogs in his brain turning, as if trying to remember. “It’s taken me a couple of days to realize how blind I’ve been,” my voice breaks, and I shake my head as tears well in my eyes. “How long, Dad?” I whisper. “How long have you been using?”

“I-“

“Do not pretend you’re not,” I say at the panic on his face. “If you lie to me, I will leave. And I won’t come back.”

His mouth opens and closes as if he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He can’t deny it, and he glances at his hands quietly. A single tear falls down my cheek, and I wipe it away as I force myself to listen. To hear him out.

But my father just stares at his hands sadly. No words. No excuses. Nothing at all. And my heart shatters into a million pieces. I shake my head to keep the tears at bay.

“I want to believe you. I want to trust you. But right now, I can’t,” I tell him, clearing the lump in my throat. “I can’t trust anyone. I don’t feel like I can-“

“Olivia, please,” he huffs pitifully, but when his shoulders shake on a silent sob, I can’t find it in myself to feel pity for him.

“I’m going to Credence with Crew.”

His head whips toward mine. “What? You can’t leave. Why?”

When I see his bloodshot eyes, when I see the tearsthat just won’t fall, I look away. “I’ll be back sometime next week-“

“Olivia, don’t leave because of this. Please, I’ll-“

“You’ll what, Dad?” I sob, knowing it’s the harshest I’ve ever spoken to him. “You’ll quit? You’ll promise to stop?” I shake my head at the thought, at his quick excuses, his ability to smooth everything over with a quick, sweet salve. “But you can’t, can you? Because you need help… and you refuse to accept it, Dad.”

Another sob slips out of him, his voice nearly incoherent, and he buries his head into his hands. “I don’t know how. Not without Beth.”

Beth.

He hasn’t said her name in so long it’s almost like she hasn’t existed the five years she’s been gone. The words speak to every sharp worry inside me. Every deep insecurity, every time I’ve ever wondered whether he was really getting better.

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