Page 33 of Landon & Shay: Part One

For a long time, he was convinced the drugs simply made his mind open more, made him able to see deeper, see clearer, create better stories. In a way, he was right. I had once gotten my hands on some of the scripts he’d written in a drug-induced state. Some of his best masterpieces were written when he was high. The words almost danced off the pages, and the story arcs were passionate and felt like magic.

Then, there were the manic stories. The ones that didn’t connect or lead anywhere. The ones that looked like scribbles across the wall. The ones that scared me. When I read my father’s messes, I ached with worry and fear for his sanity.

The stories Dad wrote outside of his highs felt more…forced, as if he was trying too hard to get the words right. It would take him months to finish a project while he was sober, compared to the manic state he’d write in while under the influence. He was too hard on himself when he wrote sober. He’d curse his words and call them trash, even though his idea of trash was my definition of glory. During those dark times, he’d fall into a depressed state, which would make him spiral back down the road of bad habits.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Not only was he not himself when he was high, he also worked like a madman. He wouldn’t sleep, hardly ate, and would snap at people whenever his craft was interrupted. Sure, he wrote amazing words when he was wasted, but that didn’t make him an amazing man.

Mom supported Dad regardless of what he did, even if she didn’t agree with it. Mima called Mom an enabler and often told her that wasn’t how a relationship should work, but in the name of love, Mom never listened.

I came from a household of addiction.

My father was addicted to drugs—both using and dealing them—and my mother was addicted to him.

I was surprised an addiction hadn’t swallowed me whole yet.

After Dad got out of prison, he’d given up writing. He figured that was his trigger—his creativity. Yet, ever since then, he’d struggled to find his footing, to find something to keep his mind and heart busy.

Mom said he needed a hobby. Mima said he needed a more worthy job.

My father called himself a jack-of-all-trades. He never worked a solid nine-to-five job, because he said he couldn’t deal with that level of repetitive tasks. So, he currently juggled three jobs a week. While that kept his mind busy, it didn’t feed his soul.

I just needed him to find some form of happiness so he could be the man we all knew he was capable of becoming.

“Knock, knock,” a voice said through my closed bedroom door.

“It’s unlocked.”

Dad turned the knob and stood there in the doorframe with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “You okay?”

“Good, just working on my audition that’s coming up,” I said, leaving out the fact that there was still a knot sitting in my stomach from listening to the three of them argue.

“Oh yeah, you got the school play coming up, right?” he asked, moving into the space and sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Yup.Romeo and Juliet.”

He nodded slowly. “‘O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?’ A classic.”

Indeed.

“Are you ready for the audition? Do you want me to listen to your piece?” he asked, acting as if there hadn’t just been a war zone in the living room a few minutes earlier.

I didn’t look like my father. He looked like the cliché all-American boy—blue eyes, blond hair, lopsided smile that always looked more like a frown. His skin was pale, and his hair was buzzed short. The wrinkles around his eyes told his history, along with the way his shoulders were always slouched forward. His face was also sunken in a bit from his past drug and alcohol habits. He looked much older than he should’ve, but he was here, alive and somewhat well.

If that wasn’t a blessing, I didn’t know what was.

“Are you and Mima ever going to get along?” I blurted out.

Dad raised an eyebrow, shocked by my question. He shouldn’t have been surprised with the amount of arguments those two got into.

“She and I are too much alike. That’s why we butt heads so much, but I can’t blame her. I’ve let you all down countless times in the past. Maria is right to be concerned, but I don’t plan on screwing up again. Not this time. This time is different, okay?”

I wanted to believe him, but one’s belief in a person faded a little more each and every time they broke your trust. It was hard to trust people who’d always lied in the past.

“Promise?” I asked him.

“Promise.” He stood up from the bed and moved over to me. He combed my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry about all the fighting, Shay. Really, I am. Also, I don’t blame your grandmother for feeling the way she does—she’s just looking to protect you and your mother. That’s her job, but I need you to understand that my job is to protect you now, too. I’m here, and I’m healing so I can be a better father and husband. I’m working on myself so I can work on us.”

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