Page 62 of Unloved

I take a little too long to wipe the computer screen and then move on to the keyboard, and when I hear him huff, I feel a sliver of satisfaction at being able to irritate him.

It’s childish and immature, but for a split second it makes me feel like I’m in control.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

On a deep breath, I raise my head and come face-to-face with what I’ll look like in another thirty years. The residual effects of my addiction meant he had size on me, more color in his cheeks, and an air of confidence I did not wear.

He could also command any space he was in, and when I was growing up, I loved it. I wanted to be just like him, but a few stints in rehab told me, I only wanted to be like him because that was the only way he would give me attention.

Over the years, I had tripped over myself and turned myself inside out to become more like him, and I failed at every turn.

“Dad,” I say. “It’s nice to see you.”

He doesn’t return the sentiment, and I try not to let it hurt.

“Is there some place we can talk?” he asks. “Somewhere a little quieter.”

Nodding, I find myself changing my mind at that moment, and have him follow me to Arlo’s office instead of going to sit at one of the coffee shops nearby. I don’t need to wade through pointless conversation with him, he made that very clear.

When the door clicks shut, I look behind me to see my father scowling at his surroundings. I point to the couch I remember sitting on when first meeting Arlo all those weeks ago.

“Feel free to take a seat, or you could just dive right in and tell me what you want to tell me.”

He rubs his hands together before putting them into the pockets of his slacks.

“We’re moving,” he blurts out. “Your mother and I… and Kayla. We’re moving.”

I find myself blinking a few times as I try to process what he’s saying.

Moving. Moving where?

“W-what do you m-mean you’re moving?” I stammer. “You mean houses? Closer to SoCal? Where are you going? Why are you going?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I need to answer you, but I got a new job and the position is based in Japan.”

“You’re movingwhere?” My voice trembles as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. “You’re moving to Japan? You’re taking Kayla to Japan? I don’t understand.”

The air starts to feel hot and thick around me, and I find myself struggling to breathe. I use my hands to fan myself as I repeatedly circle the room.

“Jesus, Rhys, would it kill you to just sit still and listen to what I have to say,” he says sternly. “We have to discuss what we’re going to do with your apartment and all your expenses.”

At this, I pause.

In the place where I tried to reclaim my life, my father stands here determined to be the reason I throw it all away.

I stand, frozen like a statue.

Not only is my whole family moving to Japan, but he’s cutting me off, and for all intents and purposes, truly leaving me behind.

“I’ve got a job now,” I tell him. “I’ve been sober for almost six months.” I rattle on about all the ways my recovery is different this time, hoping to see a change in his expression. Waiting for the morsel of pride I have felt in myself lately to shift to him, so he can feel it too.

But it never comes.

He either doesn’t listen or he doesn’t care.

It hurts all the same.

“I could come to Japan with you,” I hear myself say.

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