Page 4 of Keep Me

He looked at me, his eyes softening. “I get it, Seren. There is a certain pride in making a place work when it wants to fall apart. But if the landlord isn’t keeping up with the big stuff, you let me know. I don’t want you worrying about a draft in the middle of winter.”

“Zane handles the drafts,” I said, nudging Zane’s arm. “He’s a regular handyman now. He’s got a toolkit and everything.”

“I have a screwdriver and a prayer,” Zane corrected, though he looked proud of the title. He looked at my dad. “It’s a good spot, Tom. The neighborhood is quiet, and it’s close to the park where Seren likes to walk. We’ll make sure it stays in one piece for another year.”

“I’m glad,” Dad nodded. “As long as you’re happy there, that’s what matters. Just don’t let that radiator keep you up too late during finals.”

I recognized that a few years ago he would have insisted on paying for something better. The theory of his parenting came from the idea that if he gave me everything materially, new clothes, new bags, shoes, trips—it would replace the fucked-up circumstances I began my life with. A black hole of grief instead of a mother.

Clearly, he learned the hard way that some absences can’t be sufficiently filled with Gucci.

This was better, it didn’t feel like he was trying to buy my comfort or fix my life from a distance. He seemed glad I had a place where I felt I belonged.

The conversation drifted then, moving into safer, lighter waters. We talked about the garden he wanted to start in the backyard, and the new coffee shop Zane had found near campus. As the evening wound down, the house didn’t feel so bruised. It felt like a momentary breath between the life I used to have and the one I was building two hours away. A glimpse of what could be. A glimpse of what should have been.

“I should probably get the coffee started,” dad said, standing up. “Unless you two need to head back now? I know the drive is long.”

“We can stay for a cup, Dad,” I said, and the way Zane settled back into his chair told me he was more than happy to wait. The look on my dad’s face wasn’t desperate this time. It was just contentment. He headed into the kitchen, humming a low tune, leaving Zane and me in the yellow glow of the dining room.

Zane leaned in, his voice a low murmur near my ear. “One more year in the blue apartment?”

“One more year,” I promised. Maybe in a year I would be ready to leave it. But for now, it felt safe. It felt like the first place that had ever been my home. I would be sad to say goodbye to it.

“Are you okay?” he asked me, his eyes evaluating me like they usually do. He had gotten less obvious about it since we met. Less intense. Maybe because there was less to evaluate, maybe because he had just gotten better at reading me.

“Yeah,” I told him, “I’m good.”

“Good as in actually good, or good in Seren’s world?” Zane asked me, one of his eyebrows shooting up.

I let a small sigh out of my mouth, and I watched the way he was trying to read me. He was always looking, looking for the things I wasn’t saying. It didn’t bother me, anymore. I had come to understand that when Zane said things like this, he wasn’t accusing me of lying. He just knew that I never really learned the difference between what was manageable and what was real.

“I’m actually good, Zane,” I said, the words didn’t feel like I was trying to convince myself. I reached out, tracing the line of his cheek above the beard. “I’m here. I ate my favorite potatoes. I’m tolerating the ghost. I’m not self-sabotaging. Those are all good things.”

Zane caught my hand, pressing a lingering kiss to my palm before letting go as my dad walked back in from the kitchen. Dad carried the mugs with focus, the steam from the coffee veiling his face for a split second. We sat and drank coffee. We did not talk about the upcoming graduation anymore, or the lease, or the memories that lived here. Instead, we talked about the mundane logistics of the drive back, the construction on the freeway and the price of gas.

The coffee was bitter, the way dad always made it, but I drank it anyway. I watched the way the light from the kitchen ceiling caught the dust motes dancing in the air, a slow, chaotic dance that did not need to mean anything. There was no grand epiphany waiting at the bottom of the cup. There was just the quiet realization that being actually good didn’t mean the absence of the gray; it just meant I was finally learning how to sit in it without feeling like I was drowning.

My dad was trying. That mattered. I glanced at him, wondering if it mattered as much to him that I was trying, too. Sometimes, I felt guilty that he was all alone in this house that was too big for him. I felt bad that he had all this money, and he had no one to share it with. And I felt worse when I realized he never really did, even when I lived with him. Petty privileged thoughts, trust me, I know. But I had them anyway. The bleak understanding that after my mom died, he spent his life with two ghosts, not just one. That’s probably why he bought so many shiny things. When I stood up to clear the table, I noticed the way his watch slid an inch down his wrist as he reached for a napkin, a luxury brand he’d worn for a decade. It seemed too big for him, now.

The final goodbye was inevitable, but the way it happened was not. Zane was the first to extend his hand, gripping my dad’s hand in a firm, respectful shake. I waited for my dad to simply nod at me. The usual, safe sign-off that needed no touch and no risk. Instead, my dad turned to me, and before I could move away, his arms came around me.

It was quick, awkward, and smelled faintly of the expensive cologne he reserved for work, even on a Saturday. His body was stiff against mine, his arms barely settling around my shoulders, like a borrowed jacket he wasn’t sure how to wear. I couldn’t remember the last time he had held me. Maybe in a grainy photo from my first birthday, maybe not since before the silence became the loudest sound in the house. Even when I was small, needing comfort, he had always defaulted to a pat on the head or a hand on my back, never a full embrace.

“Drive safe, kiddo,” he said the words delicately. “Love you.”

I nodded and let Zane gently guide me toward the front door. Stepping back into the night air was like breaking the surface of a deep, warm pool. The visit was a bridge we crossed every month, and every time, I felt both relieved, and hesitant to reach the other side. The door clicked shut, sealing us inside the familiar dark of Zane’s car. I sighed, leaning my head against the cool glass of the passenger window. No matter how much therapy I did, my dad’s love, or sometimes-love, was always the hardest to figure out.

“You okay?” Zane’s voice was a low rumble as he started the engine.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just… tired.”

“He’s trying,” Zane reminded me, but he didn’t have to. I was constantly reminding myself. The slight vibration of the car helped calm my thoughts as he started to drive.

“I know,” I nodded. “We all are.”

“We all are,” he echoed, reaching over to take my hand between his. “Have you talked to Lucy at…”

I interrupted him. “Last week I had three tuna fish sandwiches for lunch.”