Page 52 of You'll Love it Here

I nod. “Oh, it’s good she’s close.”

“Yeah...” His hands curl around his mug and his eyes become distant. “Right now, she don’t got a lot of time to see me and I don’t blame her.” He shakes his head. “I went through some bad times, drank too much, did some stupid stuff. Missed too much. Do you know how much a parent has to fuck up for a child not to want to see them much?”

His words hit like pellets. It’s like I’m not even in the room. I blink and I blink, trying to find the ground again.

“I’m trying,” Carmen continues. “I know you think I’m this jackass, but I’m trying.” He exhales through the thick air in theroom. “I quit my ways over two years ago. Went to AA, got a therapist.”

I risk taking a swig of Fanta to clear the lump in my throat. During my graduation, when I saw how drunk my dad was, I was so humiliated. I felt like, if people saw the state of him—if they found out who he was to me—my life would be over. I wanted to scream almost as much as I was determined not to let him ruin my moment. My new life. Even while wasted, he looked so proud when he saw me in my cloak. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he realized—the officer holding his shoulders to escort him out, because I called security to remove him.

He said: “Mona, I came to watch you. I’m so proud.” I’ve filed away most thoughts of my dad out of self-preservation, but I sometimes let myself remember those words.

I try not to remembermy wordsback to him.

The next day, he promised he’d never drink again. And he did everything he could to stay on track, as far as I can tell. For two years he was sober and trying to repair things with me. And I was just about to reach out to him, when he relapsed.

Six months later, I had to meet my mom to pick him up from the police station because he woke up on the neighbor’s couch.

At the time, it was an odd kind of relief that I’d held off on repairing things with him before that. Because I knew already that Ihad toprotect myself if I was going to make it.

After his brush with the police, he was sober until he died.

And again, I was going to forgive him. I knew I would eventually. But I let five more years pass.

Maybe if I’d seen the sober guy trying his best, it would’ve happened sooner? But I just kept holding out, waiting for the shoe to eventually drop. Waiting for his sober days to outnumber his last good streak. Like it was some kind of list I could check off. Like all of it was measurable and straightforward, and controllable for me.

All those years—timing is a funny little bitch—when I finallymet him in what was meant to be the beginning of our coffee dates, I didn’t know he only had three weeks left.

I hate when my mind goes there—into those pointless what-ifs and guilt spirals. It’s best to stop replaying things that can’t be undone.

The urge to change the mood overwhelms me.

“So, how much would you get for a piece like that?” I’m pointing at this ancient star baby mobile that is hanging from the light fixture in his theoretical eating nook.

Carmen’s gaze follows my finger. “About fifty bucks if I find the right buyer. Those are extremely rare.”

“Fascinating.” I take yet another sip of flat Fanta—an apparently acquired taste.

His voice becomes serious as he raises a brow. “Listen, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea here.”

I almost spit out my drink.

“I know you’re on leave from work and probably looking to make some cash with odd jobs here and there, but in this line of work, you gotta be careful. It can be dangerous as all hell meeting strangers on the internet.”

I didn’t expect this weird fatherly concern from Carmen. Or is it just because Iknowhe’s a dad now? My throat thickens, so I throw another sugary blast of Fanta on it. How long has it been since my dad offered to check my apartment windows to make sure they locked properly? Texted to see if I needed a ride home? He couldn’t offer much, but he did that.

“I’m telling you, it’s not a fun way to make a living,” Carmen continues. “There are a lot of what I’ve coined Marketplace Motherfuckers to deal with.”

“What’s a marketplace... motherfucker?”

“People message you with bullcrap like ‘Is this available?’ then ghost you. Or write just to tell me that I’m asking too much fora vintage toaster—not to haggle, just to let me know, when they could get a life.”

I let out a chuckle.

And Carmen seems to stand taller. “Last week I have this one guy give me this whole long story about why he couldn’t pick up the globe that I was offering forfree.” He brushes his forehead with his fingers. “I mean, I feel bad that he was apparently attacked by a bobcat, while his wife stole his truck, but Jesus Christ, he could’ve just ghosted.”

“Okay, but this is compelling stuff he’s sharing. Were there pictures?”

Carmen’s grin spreads all the way to the corners of his eyes. “Matter of fact, he sent me this.” Carmen pulls out his phone to reveal an unbelievably obvious stock photo of an arm in a bandage.