Page 62 of The Second Dance
Out of energy.
Out of give a shit.
I stomp inside, slowing slightly when I catch sight of the portrait in the hall. My mom’s off dating chiropractors while my dad still has their wedding photos on the wall.
I walk into the kitchen, spotting my dad pouring bourbon into his coffee.
“A little early to hit the sauce, don’t you think?” I ask, refilling my travel mug.
He barely looks at me before sliding onto a stool. “Mind your own business, son.”
“Seeing as how you were going to be the one to receive the new tractor this morning, it kind of is my business.”
He glances up at me, scrubbing his hand over his face. “That was today?”
“Yes, it was.” I hesitate. We don’t really talk about feelings. He never missed a single football game of mine, and he was the guy who gave me the ‘always use a rubber and get permission’ conversation, but feelings? No. “How are you doing, dad? You seem… down.”
He glances up at me, giving me a wry smile. “I’m not down.”
“Okay.”
“Down was weeks ago. I’m at the center of the earth, kid.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with my mug. “Do you… want to talk about it?”
“With you? Hell, no.” His casual smile is back in place and it makes me wonder how many times that mask has hidden what’s really going on below. He nods his chin at me. “What about you and that bird girl?”
“Andy?”
He leans back, scanning my face. “How come I haven’t seen her around? What’d you do?”
I roll my eyes, turning away from his scrutiny. “I didn’t do anything.”
I can feel him staring at my back. “You slept with her.”
“Dad…”
“Oh, come on. It’s no big secret. Your face gives you away.” He sips his coffee. “And I keep my ear to the ground. I know you were spending a lot of time with her and now you’re just moping around by yourself.”
I turn to face him. “Where’d you hear this?”
“It’s a small town, Bo. No such things as secrets.” He tilts his head. “If you miss her so much, why don’t you go get her?”
“I miss her like a hole in the head.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrug. “We’re no good for each other, dad. Fire and gasoline.”
“This is my fault.”
“What? How do you figure?”
“I turned you into a cynic.” He shakes his head. “Your mother would probably wring my neck. You were always the big-hearted one and now look at you. Bitter. Prickly as a porcupine.”
“I’m not turning into a cynic.”
“Damn straight you’re not because I saw to it.”
