Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“What do you want me to do, just throw away the game?”
“What game?”
He shifts awkwardly. “Beer pong.”
I groan and start the car. I can’t even look at him, my own son. He reminds me of my failures. I should’ve found a way to be in his life more, even if it ended up with me in jail.
“Ryan,” I say in the calmest tone I can. “Surely you understand how rude it is to leave somebody waiting thirty minutes just to play beer pong.”
He scowls at me. “You saying you never kept anybody waiting your whole life, Dad?”
When we come to a red light, I reach over, clapping my hand on his shoulder. Emotion tries to strangle me when I think about all the moments I missed, the times we could’ve bonded. I remember when he was little, before the split, taking him to the gym with me. He had such a big, carefree grin on his face as he watched me hit the pads.
“It’s not about keeping me waiting. It’s the attitude. If you’d told me what you were doing and said you were sorry, then I wouldn’t care, but this entitlement… It’s not good.”
Ryan folds his arms and stares out the window. “Yeah, well.”
“You’re a twenty-one-year-old man,” I snap. “Not a child.”
“Maybe I’ll move to Spain soon anyway.”
“I’d rather you stayed here.”
He looks at me sharply. “Oh, really? So we can keep our great father-son relationship intact?”
I grind my teeth. Last week, I was almost tempted to take Ryan to the gym, throw some gloves on him, a mouthpiece, and go for a few rounds. Nothing crazy—I’m not going to hurt my own son—but enough to show him what hard work really is. “I want you here because you’re doing better.”
“Better how?” he says.
“Believe it or not, you’re less bratty and entitled than when your mother left, and that’s saying something.”
Ryan softens just a tiny bit. I can see the boy he was trying to press through his expression. I know he’s still in there before that chip was placed on his shoulder. “I’m not moving to Spain. Anyway, cut me some slack. I had to dump my girlfriend today.”
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” I murmur.
“Yeah, maybe that’s because you try to knock my head off every time I open my mouth.”
I ignore the dramatics, driving calmly. The one whiskey has already faded, but I still pay keen attention to the road. “Well, tell me what happened.”
Ryan groans. “It’s no big deal. Honestly, she was getting needy and a little desperate—kind of pathetic. So I had to cut her loose, but it still sucks. I liked having a girlfriend. It’s so difficult to get one.”
There’s lots I could say here, not that I’m some Casanova. Ryan’s a handsome young man. If he fixed a few flaws in his personality, he wouldn’t have any problems with the opposite sex. I’m sure of it, but what would I know? I rarely date, and now that I’ve met my Molly, there’s only one person I’m even capable of thinking about.
“I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time, son,” I tell him, “but it will get better if you get better.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?” he snaps.
“I don’t know enough about the situation,” I reply. “All I know is life’s a hell of a lot easier when you’re not constantly looking for a fight.”
“Says the three-time world champion.”
I laugh gruffly. “That’s exactly why you should listen to me. Real fighters know what happens when the violence starts, and the mayhem takes hold. We know that bad things happen when you lose your cool.”
“I’m not looking for a fight, anyway.”
“You’re always angry, son,” I say. “Every time I see you. Every time we speak. You’re always so angry, even when listening to music or playing video games, and you don’t know I’m watching.”
“Maybe I’ve got a lot to be angry about.”
I sigh, nodding. I can’t argue with him there, but parents divorce all the time. Sure, he’s had it tough, but it’s nothing compared to… No, I won’t go there. I won’t play the comparison game. All that matters is I’m here for my son.
We drive in silence for a while, and then Ryan murmurs, “I’m sorry, Dad, for everything. I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I tell him.
That’s all we need to say for now. There’s too much to delve into, what with his mom and the split. Then his mother decided to move, despite Ryan wanting to stay and attend college here. He was nineteen but not mature. She coddled and then deserted him—a vicious combination.
I drive us home to the four-bedroom in the suburbs and pull into the garage. When Ryan said he wanted to attend a college near me, I felt so privileged. We were going to make up for lost time, and we have, to some degree, but it’s not like I imagined. It’s as if he’s holding onto this ball of anger, refusing to let go, almost like it’s comforting.