Page 85 of The Boyfriend List
I wishIknew what I was going to say. I don’t know how to deal with a father who isn’t all arrogance and bravado, talking over everyone else and ensuring his voice and ego are the loudest in the room.
This version of my dad is defeated, slumped in his barstool nursing a Tsingtao beer.
I consider taking the barstool next to him, then think better of it and leave a seat between us. “A water, please.”
The bartender brings me a bottled water. It’s a fairly slow day, for a Friday. Maybe my dad knew that and that’s why he came here.
“Have you spoken to your brothers and sister?” Dad asks me when I sit down. His voice is hoarse. Like he’s been crying.
I refuse to believe that. More likely he’s been yelling and raging. “That’s the first thing you have to say to me? Didn’t you guys have a heart-to-heart at the wedding?”
He shakes his head. “We haven’t spoken since. Savannah stormed out a few minutes after you did, and all your siblings followed her.”
So we all have the same style of conflict avoidance, passed on from our childhood like hand-me-down clothes.
“I haven’t talked to them either.”
“Get on with your rant, then.” He waves a hand as if it’ll conjure an angry tirade from my tongue. A sigh escapes his lips, as he stares into his beer bottle with red-rimmed eyes.
“I don’t have a rant for you.” It’s true. Seeing him like this has deflated any harsh words I could have summoned. “You don’t deserve one.”
He deserves much worse than an angry rant for all the years of arguing, verbal bulldozing, and emotional manipulation that we’ve put up with. But my stupid filial piety doesn’t let me say that, either. I’m too tired for it in any case.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I know I never was the father you deserved. The husband your mom deserved."
I can hardly take in the words. He's never apologized before, at least not in any meaningful way. Apologies from him are usually passive-aggressive, making you feel likeyou'rethe one who should be apologizing for raising a complaint.
"Why?" I snap, hating how laden with emotion the syllable sounds. "Why was it so hard for you to care—to tell us you loved us—to keep from losing your temper? Do you even care about all the years Mom spent keeping your house and raising your kids?"
His face flushes. Is he going to raise his voice and yell? Break the facade of a penitent father?
"You may not want to hear this, London, but I didn't have the best childhood. Your grandparents were strict and unfeeling people. They did their best to provide for our physical needs, but they were not physically or verbally affectionate. I knew they loved me because they gave me everything I needed to survive.
"When I met your mother, I never was one for flowery words or endearments. Over the years, I let our marriage fall apart, thinking it was enough that I provided for a roof over her head and enough money to go shopping. And with all of you kids, I know I never hugged or played with you the way I should have. But in my eyes, what mattered was that I gave you the best opportunities: extracurricular activities, private schools, and lavish vacations."
I blink slowly, trying to accept his words. Trying to push past the years of resistance that tell me he's manipulating me. That it feels too convenient, for him to come back after years of harsh words and passive-aggressive power plays, and give one speech and be forgiven.
“Well, it wasn’t enough,” I snap, but the words have no teeth. Where I thought years of holding my tongue and biting back my contempt for him would have sharpened my verbal arrows, they seem to have dulled them instead.
“Iknow!” he says, slamming his bottle on the bartop. “I know I’ve never done enough, London. I know that over the years, between five kids and all the hours I put in at the firm, your mom and I… we drifted apart. I let us drift apart, because what did it matter? Nobody gets divorced at our age. Nobody gets divorced when they’re our ageandChinese. Nobody gets divorced…”
“Until they do,” I say, the words more white flag of surrender than condemnation. “Are you really… are you really going through with a divorce?”
He shrugs. “We didn’t have a prenup. Your mother is going to take everything from me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll let her. That’s the least I deserve.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. “You’re not even going to fight for your marriage? Get counselling?”
“Don’t make my mistakes, London. Don’t wait until things are beyond repair,” he says. He drains his beer and motions to the bartender. “Another one, please.”
I slide off the barstool and slap a five dollar bill on the bar. “I’ll never make your mistakes.”
Chapter Thirty-One: Gloria
In our cute concert outfits, Raina and I are ready to see SB19. Kostas wanted to come too—his overprotective instincts have kicked into high gear—but we pointed out he wouldn't have fun and he could send his bodyguard instead. He agreed, and stayed at the beach house to drink beer and watch TV with Paulo.
As the driver-slash-bodyguard takes us to the concert, expertly weaving around the chaotic Filipino drivers, Raina squeezes my hand. "I know I'm not London, but we’ll still have a good time tonight."
I take a deep breath. "I know we will."
