Page 71 of Chalk Outline
“Come on, don’t be like that. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For how long this time?” I scoff, clasping the matchbox so tightly that it crumples in my hand and drops to the ground as I release it.
“I brought you a gift,” he says, leaning forward. “Actually, two.”
I lift my gaze from the grass, my eyes trailing the dark trench coat hugging his tall frame, before I meet the second smile I hate most.
So fake.
He could have taken us far away from this place, but he never even tried. How convenient of him. I don’t think either of them ever spared a single thought for my needs, education, or future.
I’m nothing.
What scares me the most is that this is all I’ll ever be.
“What do you want?” I frown at him.
“To spend some time with my son. Is that a crime?” He dangles the plastic bag in front of me, and I take it. The least he can do is buy me comics so I can pass my time in hell while my mind escapes to an alternate universe.
I live in a messed-up reality as is; I’d rather get away from it.
“I knew you’d be happy to get this.” The slight curl at the corner of his mouth is meant to make me feel somewhat comfortable when he is around, as it used to. I remember he read comic books to me a few times when I was little. I would lie between his arms, flipping the pages for him, while his deep, soft voice soothed me until I fell asleep. He was more sober than Mom when he was around, but unlike her, he always left. “It’s a new edition,” he adds.
I nod.
He could have made more effort to be my dad instead of just buying me a comic book on rare occasions.
“It’s a belated fourteenth birthday present. How’s Mom?”
Doing what she had always done, numbing herself. “She’s good.”
“I know you’re taking care of her.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and brings a cigarette to his mouth, lighting it with a gold lighter. I zoom in on the embossed moth before he slips it back into his pocket.
“I don’t have a choice,” I sneer.
He blows out smoke before taking another pull. “I deserve that.”
He deserves much worse, but I’m not in the mood to keep score.
“I brought her a new supply. You don’t need to worry about it for at least a month.”
“Okay,” I roll my eyes at the absurdity of his words. They’ll probably party, and it will be gone in a week with the rest of the circus clowns that feed off drugs.
“Why do you hate me so much?” he purses his lips into a thin line before dragging his teeth across his lower lip. “I mean… I know I’m not around, but I’m trying.”
Not enough.
Trying means being present, not constantly searching for new adventures every time he gets out of jail, to earn money and waste it on meaningless things.
His eyes narrow as he assesses my bleak expression.
“I don’t hate you. I’m just disappointed.” I lie, but I am both. I loved him when I was six, maybe because he introduced me to a world that fascinated me, and I waited for him to feel that way again and again. Not because of pages, illustrations, and words, but because it was our time. Me and him.
Now, when I look at him, all I see is a shallow man. It saddens me because I don’t respect him, but I still wait for my dad to show up. I need him, and I hate to admit it.
“Reeve, those characters you read about in comic books—they exist in real life. Take a good look around you when you’re done reading. They’re all reflections in the eyes of the people who encounter you when you observe them closely. We’re all trying to get by while fighting our own demons.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have brought me into this world before you sorted out your life because I’m drowning with you, whether you like it or not. And whether I like it or not,” I reply, clenching my jaw as I gaze into the sudden sparkle in his eyes. It carries an emotional weight that throws me off. He always had kind eyes that drew people in, reflecting honesty and goodness even when it wasn’t really there. I guess that’s his secret weapon.
