Page 256 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Well,” he says coolly, “I seeyou’restill hanging around my son.”

Simone straightens slightly. “Hi, Mr. Sinclair.”

Her voice is polite and controlled, like always.

I don’t know if it’s the alcohol coursing through me or just being over his shit, but I don’t even think about it when I step closer to him, lowering my voice. “Watch your tone with her.”

His eyes flick to me. Sharp and annoyed.

He doesn’t take too kindly to being the one told what to do around here.

“I don’t take instructions from you.”

“I’m not giving you instructions,” I say evenly. “I’m telling you to respect her before we have a problem.”

He scoffs. “You don’t get to tell me how I speak to anyone.”

I hold his stare. “If you want me to play the part and put on a show foryoutoday,” I say calmly, “you might wanna do the same.”

The air feels thick as we stare each other down.

“Whatever,” he mutters, dismissing me as he turns to walk away.

“Sorry,” I turn and tell Simone once he’s gone.

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I can handle him.”

“It’s not your job to,” I grit out.

“It’s not your fault either,” she says gently.

I hear my dad call out from across the lawn. “Mason. Now.”

I roll my eyes instinctively, then look back at her.

“You should probably go show your parents around,” I say softly.

She searches my face. “Are you okay?”

The haziness presses in for a second, but I smile through it.

“Yeah. Of course. I’m good.”

After Simone walks away, I don’t walk over to where my dad is right away. I watch him walk toward the stadium tents and wait until he’s busy shaking hands with some booster-looking dad before I turn in the other direction. My car is parked near the entrance, but it feels miles away as I walk over. I keep looking around to make sure no one sees me.

I press my palm to my head, trying to rub the tension away before popping my trunk open and grabbing the three small shot bottles of Jameson I had tucked into the side compartment. I twist the first one open, and it burns on the way down. My throat tightens, and my eyes water a bit. I tip back the second one faster this time. Then the third. I tilt my head back and let it drain, not missing a drop.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stand there for a second, staring at the empty bottles in my palm. The dull warmth washes over me, and I roll my neck in relief. There’s a little hum under my skin that says, there you go, buddy. We got you.I toss the empty bottles back into the trunk and slam it shut harder than I mean to. Then I move around to the driver’s side door and yank it open, digging through the center console, looking for some gum, but all I find are several empty containers.

Shit.

“Are you kidding me?” I mutter.

I let out a frustrated breath, but it’s already hitting—that floating feeling, that slight tilt to the world. The edge is gone. I don’t even care about the damn gum anymore. I just lock the car and head back toward the stadium.

By the time I find my dad again, he’s already in full performance mode. He’s talking to Coach near the bleachers, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing in the air like he’s telling him all about his glory days here.

Coach sees me first. “Sinclair,” he nods.