Page 57 of Miss Behaved
I’m pretty sure Mom would take him to court over summers if she knew he was sending me on his morning whiskey runs, but I’m eighteen now, so none of that matters. I don’t need to tiptoe around Mom’s rules. I don’t need to walk on eggshells for my Dad. I’m working, I’m independent. I can do what I want. Have what I want.
Even Monica.
“You want to drink yourself to death? You’re on your own from now on,” I say to him. I try to push past but he shoulders me, and it shoves me back onto the deck.
I might have physically outgrown him this past year, but that doesn’t stop him from using the fact that he’s my father to throw extra weight into the situation.
“Punk ass little shit,” Dad snarls, taking another swig. “Just like your whore mother.”
I land my fist on the side of his jaw before I process what I’m doing. The force of it sends him a step backward, but the alcohol must numb the sting because his face barely flinches. He grips his beer in his hand, his eyes darkening. It’s the look he gets when his mind fades out and the booze takes over.
“Don’t talk about her that way,” I say, rubbing my aching knuckles.
Dad laughs and spits a chunk of blood out onto the deck. “You always were a sucker for those fucking pussies. Your mom, that bitch next door.” His head tips toward Monica’s house, and I see red.
I throw myself at him again, but he’s ready for it this time. Even if half his blood is diluted in beer, he manages to stumble out of the way and plant his hand in the center of my throat, holding me at arm’s length. Pressing forward, he slams my back into the side of the house.
I could take him.
He’s strong but sloppy.
Tall, but not quite as tall as me.
I could stop him.
I could—
His fingers grip tighter on my throat as his eyes find their focus.
“Don’t” is all he says before letting go and stepping back.
He slumps into a wooden chair, and it creaks with his weight. He settles in before finishing his beer in a final drink.
“You think you’re so different from me, don’t you?” he says. “You’re not. Just because you chose to side with your mother doesn’t mean you can escape the blood runnin’ through your veins, boy. Me, my dad, his dad—generations just waiting to catch up with you.”
“I’m nothing like you,” I tell him, wanting so badly to believe it. But he chuckles and crushes the beer can in his fist.
“I said the same thing. Believe it or not, I was a lot like you growing up. Stayin’ outta trouble, going to school, focusing. Looking at my dad like he was the piece of shit I’d never turn into.” His eyes glance toward Monica’s house. “Fallin’ for the sweet girl.”
I look up at Monica’s window. Her curtains are still drawn, and there’s no sight of her. If she’s still asleep, I hope she’s at least dreaming.
“But then life hits ya. Maybe it’s your first time getting fired, and she’s the only one bringing in money. Or maybe it’s a fight that leaves you lonely at a bar in the middle of the week, lookin’ for anyone to fill the void that she’s tired of fillin’. But before you know it, that sweetness inside you turns mean, angry, pissed at a world that does nothing to help ya.” Dad stares off into the distance, his eyes fading in and out with waves of booze crashing inside him. “You think you’re good.”
His eyes pin me at that.
“But that kind of thinking is exactly what pulls you under. The blind hope that you’ve broken what generations couldn’t. And she’ll make you believe it, for at least a little while. Just like your mom did with me. And you want to know why?”
“Why?” I don’t know why I ask, but I can’t seem to help it. I’m absorbed in whatever vortex he’s sucked me into.
“Because there’s a void, and you’ve always felt it. And she’s all smiles and fuckin’ energy. You’ll think it’s love. Riding the wave of highs and lows. Until one day you realize she cries more than she smiles, and you only feel good once you’ve drained her of her day. And you’re a black hole that’s sucking the life out of her, but you can’t help it because it’s the only way your insides know how to survive.”
Something aches in my chest. That pulse that beats constantly for Monica. That reason I was drawn to her on that porch when we were eleven. Because my dad had just thrown a moving box at me, and I needed to escape. And when I turned the corner to punch something, a tree or whatever I could get my hand on, I spotted Monica instead.
Her eyes peeking over her notebook as she anxiously tapped her feet. Eyes that spent years trying to avoid me, like they knew I was a bad idea waiting to happen.
And I tried. I really tried. I dated girls who everyone in school talked about so she would know it. I treated her like just a friend in the hopes that if she believed it enough for the both of us, it would be true. But those eyes wouldn’t stop looking and begging and digging. Until last night, when I couldn’t resist.
“She’s off to school, moving on with her life. All you’ll do is destroy her,” Dad says, following my gaze to the window I’ve spent too many hours of too many days staring at.
