Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 214(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 214(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Silence follows my question before Nate finally replies.
“Drunk driving,” comes the muffled reply. “I need you to post bail.”
I run a hand over my face, anger, humiliation and frustration warring inside me. Why can’t my father deal with his shit like a man? An adult who can bounce back from adversity?
“Where are you exactly?” I ask, gesturing for Summer to find me a pen and paper.
She ducks into her room and returns with a pink pad and a pen, which I use to write down the jail nearest my father’s house in Hewlett, which is a solid hour and a half from Summer’s apartment, no traffic.
“Got it. I’ll be there in the morning.”
“But…”
I shake my head, refusing to give in to guilt for not rushing to bail him out now. “By the time I show up, they won’t process you out anyway.” I want my father sober when I see him, plus a night in jail to think about how dangerous his actions were might help.
“Time’s up!” a loud voice calls out, obviously letting my father know he has to hang up the phone.
“I’ve gotta go. Thanks, son.” He disconnects the call, and I cringe knowing I have no choice but to turn and face Summer. The explanation I’ve been avoiding giving her, the truth about my father, my parents, my background, is about to come out.
“Ben? Is your father okay?” Summer asks gently.
I shrug my shoulders, not knowing the answer to that question. It ought to bother me more, but I am so tired of seeing my father drunk or hungover, which is why these days I barely see him at all.
“He’s probably sobering up and coming to terms with being picked up for a DWI,” I mutter.
She tucks the towel tighter around her. “And is this an unusual thing? Him being drunk? And driving?”
I swallow hard. “Why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll explain after.” I need a minute to gather my thoughts and pull my composure further around me.
She nods, spins around, and heads for the bedroom.
I give her a few minutes to change while I stare out the window over the glittering city lights. I’m not a jerk. I understand my father has a serious issue. I’d just feel better about it if the man were willing to get himself some help instead of spending all these years indulging past pain.
I hear the sound of a drawer close in the bedroom and know I can’t stall any longer. I head to join Summer.
She sits on top of the bed wearing an oversized white tee shirt, her nipples poking through the fabric, her legs drawn up to her chin, a sexy peek of her panties visible.
I ignore the unintentional view for the more serious conversation we are going to have and settle on the edge of the bed.
“I mentioned I don’t celebrate my birthday … unless forced.”
“You did allude to something like that.” She waits patiently, those big brown eyes softening as they focus on me.
I think back to when I was little. “I remember parties when I was little.” One party in particular, with streamers in the garage and a magic show. “My mom and dad would both be there. But after things fell apart, I don’t remember any holidays or happy celebrations.” I don’t feel sorry for myself, I am just … resigned to how things are. How they have been for the last twenty years.
I glance at Summer, who waits patiently, as if sensing I need to tell this story on my own time, at my own pace.
I know it will never get easier, so I dive in. “My dad and his best friend, Tom, were partners in a lucrative import-export business, and Mom worked there, too, handling the books. Tom Milford wasn’t married and he spent holidays with my family. To me, he was my uncle, as much family as if he were blood related.” I remember looking up to the big bear of a man, as much as I once did to my father, which is why the betrayal hurt badly.
“The business began to expand quickly, and it was my father who did the overseas travel to procure items for shipment and to handle contracts with the overseas companies. And he was good at what he did.” I swallow hard. “To sum up an ugly story, my mother and my uncle had an affair. I was sleeping at a friend’s. Dad came home early from a business trip and caught them in bed.”
I wince as I say the words, unable to imagine how betrayed his father must have felt. Which is why my frustration with the man makes me feel so conflicted. Do I feel sorry for him? Am I angry with him for not getting over it? It is a difficult mixture of both.