by CL Walters
I sigh. Shit. “I asked Max if she would let me take her on a date.” The words tumble out like someone who’s tripped and can’t catch their fall. “She agreed.” I cringe at the awkward finish.
He hums again, taking in the information his eyes jumping between us.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I say, unable to meet his gaze, but then chance a look at him.
Cal sits up and forward on his chair, nonplussed. He reaches over and places his cup on the coffee table. “How long has it been going on?”
“After Thanksgiving,” Max says. “A couple of weeks.”
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes move to the fire in the fireplace. He clears his throat and hums again, though the sound isn’t approval this time, but instead like he’s found the solution to a puzzle.
I look at Max, unsure what this means. I know that Cal hasn’t ever been a man of many words, but I’m not sure how to interpret it in this situation.
She shrugs.
He stands up, retrieves his cup, and walks out of the room.
“Dad?” Max follows him.
I follow her. We stop at the island.
He refills his mug with apple cider, sets it on the counter, and peeks into the stove. “This is ready.”
Max—now standing next to me—takes my hand. “Are you upset?”
He straightens. “Should I be? You’re both adults. Why would my opinion matter?”
“It matters because I love you.” Max says. “And–”
“And,” I say, “I was worried about betraying your trust, sir.”
He glances at us and then back at the food. “I was young once.”
“You’re still young,” Max says.
He takes a deep breath, sets down the potholders, and turns to face us. “I respect your choices, Wells. And if Griffin is your choice, my opinion is of little import.” He looks at me. “And my opinion, Griffin, with respect to this situation and trust, makes for blurry lines. I feel like your job, or my role as a boss, shouldn’t be about this but rather about me as Maxwell’s dad. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“That said, I trust Max. Maxwell trusts you, then I support that trust. Until I don’t.”
“Yes, sir.”
Max squeezes my hand.
“Good. Now, let’s eat.”
We sit down to share our pre-Christmas dinner. The concrete in my lungs has broken up, except now that I’ve leveled up in the game and extended my life, there’s way more at stake.
Max and Cal.
The old me operated under the reality that it was always just me. Sure, I had my bros, but my choices for the most part weren’t about them. Hooking up with girls without consequences didn’t impact them (or so I rationalized to myself, which I know now is a crock of shit). Those were choices I made which left me empty but didn’t impact anyone I cared about (I certainly didn’t care about the girls). New me, though, who’s struggling to keep the more vulnerable parts of myself active, recognizes that my choices will now impact at least two very important people in my life. I’m not sure how to navigate it, feeling the pressure not to ruin it, and realizing that might be an impossibility.
3
When I climb out of the car, I get the first honest glimpse of the apartment building where my father lives. It looks like a pile of shit with a fresh coat of blue paint. The railings are rusty and flaking black paint. I don’t think it would be difficult to fix something like that, then stop myself. When had I become someone who thought about fixing things?
Phoenix leads us up the steps to the second floor and down an exterior hallway past assorted doors, keeping care not to touch the untrustworthy railing. I’m content to follow my older brother. When we reach 231, a white door with a window just to the left, we pause, but we don’t have to knock because the door opens. On the other side, obviously watching for us, is our father.
“You’re here.” His voice is a bit too loud, full of nerves.
“Yeah.” Phoenix speaks for both of us. I certainly can’t find words. I just feel like backing away. “We said we would be.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d change your mind.” He wraps a big hand around the back of his neck. I notice the tattoo again, his fingers curled around it, and this time wonder what it is. He seems to remember he wants us inside and steps back to allow us through the entry. “Come in. Come in.”
Phoenix, the braver of us, passes him across the threshold.
I follow.
I remember my father in contrasts. There is the father who would clamor around on the carpet with us. He’d walk into the house from being away for the week, tired, but happy. My brother and I would tug at his wide hands until he fell to the floor, and then roll all over him, exclaiming it was time for a wrestling match. I’d claim The Dead Man and my brother was always Stone Cold. A wrestling match would ensue, my mother leaning against the opening between the dining room and kitchen, a towel thrown over a shoulder, arms crossed, as she watched us. She never smiled, but the edges around her eyes would soften.
He’d eventually make his way across the room to her, gather her up in his arms and kiss her.
Phoenix and I would object to such a disgusting display.
Then there was the opposing image. He’d walk into the house after being away. Phoenix and I would clamor for his attention, pulling on his hands, one son holding onto each of his. He’d shut us down with a gruff word— “Stop”—the tone of his voice enough to cut our excitement at seeing him off at the knees. We’d retreat. He’d sit and watch TV.
Mom would walk in from the kitchen, the towel in her hands, and frown.
These nights they would fight, after Phoenix and I went to bed.
Jaxon Nichols wasn’t a man that hurt us, not in a physical sense. He didn’t raise a hand to any of us. He didn’t need to. There was always something frightening about him even if he wasn’t trying to be. It was as if we were always walking a razor’s edge.
On the nights they fought, I would crawl into bed with Phoenix, who’d let me, but he’d turn his back on me. “Don’t cry,” he’d whisper sharply. “Big boys don’t cry.”
But I wasn’t a big boy.
I realize the mystique I’ve assigned my father might not be accurate. He’s as much a stranger to me as I am to him.
His eyes follow Phoenix first, then find me.
I look away. The naked vulnerability in them makes me uncomfortable.
The apartment is small. We walk into a living area passing over a two-by-two linoleum entry directly onto brown carpet of a living room. There’s a small, fake tree with blinking-colored lights on a table next to the window in the room containing mismatched furniture. A small u-shaped kitchen with a bar and three stools a few paces from where we’re standing. I notice a small hallway that disappears to the right where I’m guessing the bathroom and a bedroom are located.
“Make yourselves at home.” He walks through the room and into the kitchen, where he stops at the stove and lifts a lid off the pot. “I’m not a chef or anything,” he tells us. “But I’ve been told I make some pretty good spaghetti.” He glances over his shoulder at us before returning his attention to the pot.
I look at Phoenix as I remove my coat.
He glances at me as he removes his.
We’re trying for brother language, but it doesn’t seem to be translating. I can’t read him, maybe that isn’t a shock, though. I’m barely reading my own feelings. I’m all mixed up, a series of contrasts myself. Anxious, angry, wary, insecure.
We drape our jackets over the back of the threadbare couch. It’s an ugly monster with a strange shape and garish yellow upholstery. A gray sheet has partially slipped off the back and is stuck in between the cushions.
“Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have anything fun. Just juice, milk, soda?”
“Water?” Phoenix asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Water is good.”
My brother and I si
t down on the stools at the off-white counter-top bar. The ivory cabinets are dated, with wood accents and no hardware. A strange image of us around 10 and 6 comes to mind in which we sit down at this bar. It’s a made-up image because it never happened. I imagine that our dad never went to prison and instead he and Mom were just divorced. That we’d show up for visitations, and I’d grown up knowing him. But it didn’t happen that way.
I press my teeth together and watch the water glass slide across the counter toward me. “Thanks.” I take a sip to keep from looking at him.
“I’m really glad you’re both here.”
My eyes jump up to him. He’s on the other side of the counter, his eyes bouncing between the both of us. He’s got a short smile, tentative and hopeful.
“I wasn’t sure.” His eyes slide to me, and I know that he’s thinking about how it went down in front of our house months ago.
I want to say, “it’s more than you deserve,” but I don’t. There’s a part of me who’s looking at this man and seeing myself. It makes me angry all over, but Cal’s words about carrying around heavy bags and how important it is to unpack them reminds me why I’m here.
“Why?” I ask.
Phoenix’s head snaps toward me, but I can only see it out of my peripheral vision.
“Why what?” Our dad’s gaze flits from me to Phoenix and back again.
“Why weren’t you sure?” It wasn’t the question I was going to ask. I thought it would be to ask him why he fucked around on Mom, why he was selling guns and drugs, why he threw us away, but I couldn’t formulate those questions.
He runs a hand over his head. His hair has grown out some since I last saw him, still short but styled more. His hand latches on his neck, and I look at the tattoo again: letters. It’s words. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, looks up at us, his hand still holding his neck. Then he turns to look inside the pot on the stove again. “I know I don’t deserve to have you here,” he finally says.
I clench my jaw to make sure I don’t say anything. I’d like to tell him he’s fucking got that right.
Phoenix doesn’t say anything either.
Our father turns back to us. “There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t regret what happened; what I’d done to get me sent there. And I knew I deserved to lose you. I guess that’s why.”
“Well,” Phoenix jumps in. “We’re here. Now.”
“You are.” The way he says it almost sounds like he doesn’t believe it. He opens his mouth to say something, but the front door opens.
“I’m here.”
We all turn toward the voice.
A girl with her back to us shuts the door. She has dark hair, a thick braid escaping from underneath a red wool cap. When she turns, I can see she’s sixteen or seventeen, her light brown skin glowing with the bite of cold on her cheeks and nose. Her hazel eyes—Nichols’ eyes—are looking back at us, wide with surprise. And I know who she is: our sister.
I stand up.
She’s holding a set of keys; she visits. Familiar with walking in and not knocking.
My eyes slide to my dad, then back to her. She slips the keys into her coat pocket.
“Mara,” our father’s voice starts, the tension in the room cracked, then reinforced by the sound. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
My head turns to look at him. Still keeping us in neat compartments.
“Mom dropped me.” Her eyes bounce between Phoenix and me.
“Well,” he says. “You’re here.” Our father smiles a smile that’s full of teeth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He claps his hands together.
“You must be them.” She looks away from Dad, and her anger takes up residence on her features, eyebrows drawn together, mouth frowning.
If I wasn’t trying to recover from surprise, I might laugh.
“I didn’t know I’d finally get to meet you.” Her eyes settle on our dad with an angry edge I recognize.
My eyebrows rise over my eyes. I might be offended except I understand her anger, realizing we have more in common that just our father’s DNA. Another Nichols family trait.
Phoenix recovers first. He steps toward her and extends his hand. “I’m Phoenix.”
“So formal,” she says but takes it.
“This is Mara.” Dad steps past me.
I haven’t said anything.
He turns and looks at me, and I get a glimpse of the tattoo. It’s our names: Phoenix. Griffin. Mara. His children. He swivels his hips toward me. “This is Griffin.”
I don’t know how to react. I’m not ready or prepared for this and feel my protective barriers come up around me. Mara’s eyes are on me. “Hey,” is all I seem to be able to get out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Grateful for the distraction, I hold it up. “I have to take this.” I move past Mara, open the door, and escape out to the cold. When I finally look at my phone, which has stopped buzzing, I’ve missed a call from Bella. No message.
I stare at the phone stuck, thoughts skipping about for something to land on. The snow is patchy and dirty. Cars speed past intermittently on the roadway beyond. I wish I was with Max, wish I could talk to her about what I’m feeling, but realize that she’d tell me to find my inner strength and walk back into the apartment to get to know a sister who, until a moment ago, was an idea. Now she’s a reality, a living, breathing person who is comfortable enough with our dad to walk into his apartment. The thought rattles me. How much more did he give her? Or was it something else? Maybe she visited him in prison? Maybe they wrote. And if so, where does that leave me? I don’t know how to answer any of these questions, but I think about Max’s rules about relationships and know I’m not following them when it comes to my dad. Not that there’s much of a relationship to begin with.
I glance at the phone again, deciding I should call Bella back, in case she needed something. It’s seems like the right thing to do, since two missed calls seems more like an intention than a coincidence. I press the button to return to call.
The door opens behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see who it is. It’s Phoenix, and I take a deep breath to clear the pipes. Had it been my dad, I might have walked away.
I end the call still ringing.
“You just going to stay out here all night?”
“I had a call.” Not exactly a lie. He doesn’t need to know I didn’t get to it in time or that it was probably a misdial.
Phoenix leans against a pillar, staying clear of the railing that looks like it might crumble. He tucks his hands up under his arms for warmth. “It’s cold out here.”
I don’t reply with the obvious or meaningless words to mirror his comment. Instead, I mirror him, leaning against a pillar and tucking my hands under my arms.
“You going to go back in?” he asks. “Or just freeze your balls off out here?”
“Did you know she’d be here?”
He shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Dad did either.”
That doesn’t make me feel more settled.
“She’s comfortable here.”
“They both live here. In the city. Probably gets to spend more time with him.”
“Makes me feel like just another afterthought.”
Phoenix sighs and looks out at the roadway. He doesn’t say anything for a time. “Perhaps it isn’t about us, you or me. Perhaps, it’s just about her and him.”
“I don’t–” I start to say, ‘I don’t understand,’ but Phoenix interrupts me.
“What I mean is that we shouldn’t make their relationship about us.”
“Except, it is.” I point at the door with accusation. “He cheated on mom. On us.”
Phoenix nods. “That isn’t her fault.”
He’s right, and I hate that he is, but it doesn’t change the fact that when I look at her, I feel the hurt my father caused by choosing them over us. That’s still how I see it.
“Would it be bad if I just wait for
you in the car?” I ask.
Phoenix looks down at his feet and sort of shuffles them against the concrete.
“I don’t know what to say without it coming out shitty,” I add.
He pushes away from the pillar and stands. “What I think is that if you want to know our sister, then you should probably walk back inside and keep your mouth shut. If you don’t, then retreating to the car is an option. But I’m thinking the only way for me to move forward is to face the shit that makes me feel uncomfortable.” He studies me a moment, stalls, and seems to want to say something else.
“What?”
“I was thinking that you do a lot of running.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just wondered, are you running away from something or toward something?” His eyes measure me a moment. Then he turns and disappears back into the apartment.
I hate his question. I know he isn’t talking about actually running, and that observation has me feeling like I’ve been pegged to a peg board. Avoiding the difficult stuff is so much easier.
With a sigh, I follow him.
Inside, Mara isn’t in sight. Dad is back in the kitchen at the stove. He turns when he hears us come back through the doorway, and the relief on his face is a tangible thing that affects his whole body.
“Perfect timing,” he says and carries the pot around the kitchen bar, placing it in the center of a compact dinette set on which he laid out place settings.
The incongruence of this scene scrambles my brain. Father, as a criminal. Father, as an angry man. Father, as an absent dad. Now, Father, as a cook. Father, as a decorator. Father, as a family man.
He stands at the end of the table facing us. “I didn’t know Mara would be here. I–” He stops, and I see his throat work as if he’s trying to keep from crying. He brings his hands together again and rubs them as if to get himself under control. “I thought tonight would be about just you boys.” He clears his throat. “Men. But maybe this is better?” He says it like a question, a wish, really, that maybe for the first time his two lives might intersect, creating just one.
Phoenix puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Of course,” making us a united front.