Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
He ignores the joke. “I was younger than you when I got sober the first time.”
Is he really admitting he had to get sober multiple times? That’s new. “And?”
“I played all the games. I learned all the tricks. There’s nothing you can say I haven’t thought before.”
Probably, yeah, but it’s different, saying something in your head or hearing it from someone else. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” I say.
“No. I do.” He looks directly into my eyes. He speaks with pure fatherly wisdom and compassion. That mix of I expect the best of you, but I’ll love you at your worst too.
I don’t believe it. I just can’t.
He continues, “I’ve done this before. I know how it goes. I know how much it hurts to hear the things someone has bottled for years. And I know how it feels to hold on to them.”
It sucks, yeah, but I still know better than to fall for an invitation to say anything. If I tell him how I actually feel, he’ll ship me back to rehab. Or install a sobriety companion. Or chase Cassie away.
I’m not sure which option is the worst.
“Try me,” Dad says. “Anything, Damon. I won’t hold it against you.”
“What’s the fucking point?”
He waits for me to expand.
I can’t say it. I can’t tell him this entire exercise is pointless. The attempt at honesty. The fake family values. The concern.
The rest of it.
I can’t.
But the fucker is right. I can’t hold on to all of it either.
I try to find the least worst thing. The futility of everything. “What’s the point of working so hard to stay sober if you’re destined to slip anyway? If everyone is going to spend every moment looking at you like you’re a ticking time bomb?”
“What’s the point of anything?” he asks.
“Is that a real question?”
He nods yeah.
“Seriously, Dad? I already took Philosophy 101. I don’t need to take it again.”
“If I recall correctly, you almost failed out of college,” he says.
And he went to a West Coast Ivy, yeah. Another way he bests me. He’s smarter, more educated, more aware of the world. “I passed the class.”
“I never took it.”
That can’t be true. He had his eyes on law school, and lawyers always take philosophy classes. But, okay, sure, we can play games. “Let’s start with The Matrix. It goes into a number of basic concepts. Metaphysics. What is reality. That’s a big area of the film. We’re all living in a simulation. Is it better to live in a lie if you don’t know it’s a lie?”
“I’ve seen The Matrix. It’s your sister’s favorite movie,” he says.
“Then you have it covered.”
He shakes his head. “If you want to play bullshit, I can play. I’ve been playing this game since before you were born. I’m older and more clever than you are.”
“And?” I ask.
“It’s an honest question, Damon. One you have to answer. Why are you here?”
He doesn’t specify if he means here, on the planet, in the state of California, or at this party, so I answer the easier question. “Cassie and I need to impress an artist.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because we want a contract with him,” I say.
“Why?” he asks again.
“Because it’s a great opportunity.”
He motions why again. “Keep answering.”
“Because the album is already a blast. Challenging and fun. And she’s perfect for it.” I want her to have this opportunity. I want to help her grab it. “It will lead to other gigs. And money. Which I need, if I want to live without strings over my head.”
He doesn't take the bait there, either. Just nods and motions for me to continue.
“Because Cassie asked me.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“She was desperate,” I say.
“Is that the only reason?”
“Because Daphne would want that. Because you and Mom would want that.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you want it?”
“I wanted a project.”
“And your relationship with Cassie?”
Right. Fuck. What the fuck did Daphne tell him? “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated isn’t good.”
“What happened to no judgment?” I knew this was a fucking trap.
“No judgment,” he promises, but it doesn’t send any relaxation through me. “Concern.”
That’s a parent way of saying judgment.
Dad leans in closer, lowers his voice to his most sincere tone. He’s right. He’s better at this game and he’s more clever. But he’s better at leaving his wit behind to embrace sincerity too. “Do you care about her?”
“We’ve been friends for a long time.” Since we were kids. Sure, we were rivals sometimes. Enemies even. But I’ve always cared about her.
“Are you fucking her?”
“Dad.” That’s none of his fucking business.
“You think I was never young?”
“Yes, Dad, I know you were young. I know you fucked half the women in the state. I’ve heard the albums. I’ve seen the news stories.”
He chuckles at his past. Then, he shifts back to his paternal posture. "You know your sister will kill you if you break her heart," he says.