Page 92 of Never Have I Ever
But now, I don’t know if leaving is what I want anymore. Which is probably why I’m here in New York at my parents’ house, having dinner with them. Dinner. That’s a foreign concept to me. My dinner consisted of takeout in my car, avoiding being at home as much as possible.
I couldn’t take the arguing every fucking day. My father always had something new he resented me for. I don’t know why the old man has such a problem with me, but for some reason, he despises me.
I like to think he grew wary of me after what happened. He was his brother, after all, but he’s been like this for as long as I remember. Which is why I would sneak out and hang out with my uncle. He ended up being the one person I looked up to growing up.
He taught me everything I know. How to drive, how to change tires, how to change engine oil. His whole life was cars, and whenever I snuck out to his garage, he’d teach me something new.
He took me driving a lot. The longest road trip we had was to Pennsylvania, where he drove us to a mountain, and we sat there, looking out at the view. He gave me my first taste of beer that day.
I didn’t think I’d ever go back there again, but when I had Rosie in my car with me, the only place I wanted to go was that mountain. I hadn’t been there in over five years, and I was glad Rosie was with me, even if she’s avoiding me now.
“Put your phone away,” my father snaps, bringing his glass to his mouth and taking a sip of the dark liquid.
I sigh and tuck my phone into my pocket.
“We spend thousands on that school, and for what? You’re still the same disrespectful screw-up.”
I scoff. “College doesn’t all of a sudden make me holier than thou. It’s called bad parenting.”
His eyes narrow as he points a finger at me. “Don’t you talk back to me.”
“Okay, why don’t we all calm down,” my mother says, trying to appease him.
My father grunts. “Don’t tell me to calm down,” he spits out. “I won’t be disrespected in my own house by a murderer.”
My jaw clenches, and my fists tighten underneath the table. “I’m not a murderer. How many more times do I have to say it wasn’t my fault?”
“Excuses don’t cut it, boy. I saw what you did to him,” he retorts, lifting his glass and spilling some of the drink on the table. I still remember being frozen in place, watching him die right in front of me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop it.
“Frank.” My mother mutters. He grunts, waving her off. I wish she’d stick up for me. Tell him that it wasn’t my fault. Tellmethat it wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t my fault, was it? I try so hard to convince myself that I couldn’t help him. But what if I was wrong? What if it was my fault?
“Would you like some dessert?” my mom asks me. “The cook made some delicious cheesecake. Amelia,” she calls out, and in comes a maid. A new one since the last time I was here. “Bring out dessert,” my mom tells her. “I think we’re stuffed from the main course.”
Amelia starts clearing the plates from the table. As much as I appreciate my mother for trying to make the situation better, dessert isn’t going to suddenly change the fucked-up relationship my dad and I have. I don't understand why he hates me. He always has for as long as I've been alive. There’s nothing I can do to change that.
I stand from the table, heading out of the dining room.
“Where are you going? We haven’t finished.” My dad says.
“To the bathroom,” I tell him. “Would you like to check my shoes for needles before I go?”
He grunts, and I take that as my cue to leave. I head out of the dining room and into the downstairs bathroom.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I came here trying to figure out the relationship I had with my parents. My mother asked me to come, but so far, there has been no evidence of them putting what happened behind them.
I stare into the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink as I try to figure out who the hell I am. I’m a product of those two out there. What does that even mean? Will I grow up to be a hot-tempered asshole like my father?
Will I even have kids? I’ve never thought about it before. A relationship, marriage. Just the thought of having kids terrifies me. What if I end up just like him? What if I become unattached and hate the kid? What if I fuck up his life just like my dad did mine?
The only man I ever looked up to is dead.
Because of me.
Maybe Frank is right. I am a fuck up and a murderer. Maybe Rosie knows that too, and that's why she's been avoiding me.
She doesn't want to be with someone like me, and she told me that herself. I don't want a relationship anyway. So why the hell am I checking my phone again?
