“God, fuck the wedding!” he shouted, spreading his arms out. “Max, we—me, Lucy, Sid, Grace … we want to help you, man! But we can’t doshitif you don’t talk to us!”
I stared off toward that light, its beacon a calling card, beckoning me somewhere. Home maybe—but where was that?
“What makes you think I want to talk?” I asked absentmindedly.
“Oh, I don’t think youwantto. I don’t think you wanna doanythingexcept drink yourself half to death,” Ricky said with a scoff. “But you should. And your dad might not give a fuck about you, but fuck him.”
“That’s some bold shit to say about your father-in-law,” I grumbled beneath my breath.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always said it, and I stand by it now. Fuck. Him. And fuck your mom too. But us? We all give a shit, okay? Let us do something. Let ushelp.”
A thick ball of emotion worked its way up my throat. I pursed my lips, bit back the urge to cry as I stared toward the water and the lighthouse, and said nothing.
Moments went by before Ricky took a step toward my back and laid a hand on my shoulder, but didn’t speak another word. He turned, muttered something to Sid, then walked away. I started a countdown in my mind, waiting for Sid to open his big mouth. Wondering what he would possibly say to me now. Was he going to criticize me for drinking? Was he going to berate me for being weak and a sorry excuse for a man—for asoldier?
But he didn’t do either of those things.
Instead, he asked, “Did I ever tell you my dad was a Vietnam veteran?”
I sucked in a deep breath, but didn’t reply. Sid didn’t seem to care.
“That place fucked him up good, man. He had been drafted, and then while he was over there, he was captured.”
I barely turned, shooting him a glance over my shoulder. The sight of my friend standing there, covered in my puke, brought a new wave of humiliation to barrel over me, and I looked away.
“He was held as a POW in Cambodia for over three years, and even though he never talked about it, I can only begin to imagine the shit he saw and the torture he went through. But he got out of there. He came home. Then, years later, he met my mom, and they had me. But he wasn’t a good father. He wasn’t a good husband either. He beat the piss out of my mom and me. He treated us like we were worth less than the shit on his shoe.”
I let my head fall, my chin touching my chest. “What about your brother?”
“He came after.”
My brow furrowed. “After what?”
“After my dad killed himself.”
Startled, I turned to face him, my hands tucked deep into my pants pockets. He shrugged one shoulder like it was no big deal, and then he cocked his thumb and pointer finger and aimed them at his temple.
“Shot himself in the head in the middle of our living room, right in front of my mom and me.”
“Holy fuck, Sid,” I uttered, breathless.
“I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom was pregnant with my brother. Apparently—and I didn’t know this until way later—my dad wasn’t his dad. You know my uncle? He’s my dad’s brother and my brother’s father.” He let out a long whistle as he shook his head. “I mean, talk about fucked-up family drama—am I right?”
“Jesus.”
He nodded and took a step toward me while waving his hand in the air. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, my point is, my dad was horrible, and growing up, I honestly thought it was because he hated us, but that wasn’t it at all. In fact, helovedus. He loved us a lot, as insane as that sounds—"
“How do you know?”
Sid shrugged and looked off toward that lighthouse in the distance. “I read his journals. He used to write in them a lot, and in them, that was the thing he talked about the most. Just how much he truly loved us, but had no idea how to show it. Because it wasn’t that he hated us—he hatedhimself. He was trapped”—he tapped his temple—“in here. Probably stuck in a hut or something in Cambodia. Still being tortured. Still watching his friends being executed. And the only way he knew how to show my mom and me that he cared was to remove himself from our lives. He did it for us, which …” He forced a chuckle and shook his head. “I would’ve preferred he, you know, hadn’t done that, but …” He shrugged like his shoulders weighed a thousand pounds.
I looked off to the wedding hall, where I suspected my vomit had been cleaned from the floor and my dad was once again dancing. Acting like nothing had happened. Acting like I’d never been born.
“I think my dad just hates me,” I muttered.
“Oh, I’m not talking about him,” Sid replied. “That guy … he can go fuck himself for all I care. Nah, I’m talking aboutyou, Serg.”
I cast my gaze over to his and saw the anger, the fury, thedeterminationhe held there.
