Page 63 of Needed You

Lev: You’re welcome anytime.

I know he means it. I felt it last night. I’ve seen how caring and giving Lev is. When he says I’m welcome anytime, I believe him. I just don’t know that I would ever be able to take him up on it. As much as I want to pursue something with him, I realized this morning how terrified I am to get attached and then lose him again. I can’t let that happen because I won’t survive it.

After I’m fully caffeinated—I ditched my gross coffee and made something fresh—I get back to work. I finish a few small projects, map out a few more, respond to some emails, and even manage to check out some social media. (That last one involves visiting Lev’s personal site to see if he has posted anything new.)

It’s late afternoon when I hear the door open downstairs and keys get tossed on the table by the door. I know it’s not my mom because she’s off with her friend Vivian on her holiday. That means it’s my dad. My conclusion is confirmed when I hear his voice echo through the house.

“Dare? Darian? Are you home?”

I scrub my hand over my face and gather up my dishes from the day. I meet him in the kitchen. He’s taking a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

“Hey, Dad.” I place my dishes in the sink and face him.

He spins around and smiles at me. “Hey, buddy. How are you?”

The nickname makes me stiffen. That was Nate’s nickname for me, and sure, it stuck with everyone else around us, but I don’t think my dad has the right to use that name anymore. That should be preserved with Nate’s memory.

I take a moment and really look at the man who used to be someone I looked up to. He’s starting to show his age. I don’t know if it’s the stress or the fact that he’s unhappy or that he’s just getting older. He has wrinkle lines by his eyes, and his hair is graying on the sides. Unlike my mom, he’s not fighting the aging process but seemingly letting it come to him naturally.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I can’t help the clipped way my question comes out.

He busies himself with the mail that he brought in. “Oh, just checking things out. I do still live here, son. I just wanted to stop by and make sure everything is okay.”

I scoff. My parents never care about what’s going on here with me. They haven’t for eight years. I wonder if my mom asked him to come and check on me or follow up on the conversation about the house.

“I wanted to talk to you, too.”

Aaaaand there it is. I make a face that shows my distaste for what he’s about to say.

He ignores that and continues. “Why don’t we go to dinner tonight and we’ll talk. Be ready in an hour.”

And with that, he leaves, heading toward what used to be my parents’ bedroom.

My stomach is swimming when I meet my dad back in the kitchen an hour later. I decided to shower and change, putting on some tight-fitting navy jeans with chains on my belt that hang to the side, mid-thigh, and my black Docs with a white button-down and a skinny black tie. My silver rings and black lip ring are also on display, and while I decided not to wear a necklace because of the tie, I put on some eyeliner, just to make my dad squirm.

Nate was always clean-cut. He wore jeans and nice T-shirts, occasionally a baseball hat. He wore his hair short and always shaved his face. He never wore any jewelry, except maybe a puka shell necklace that he got at the shore one year, but he was polished. My parents loved to show him off.

When I decided to change up my look, lose some weight, and find who I really wanted to be, these wardrobe elements always seemed to bother my dad. He used to say that he saw it as a way for me to rebel, to show my “dark side” after losing my brother. He once told me that it embarrassed him because he assumed people would think I was depressed. That made me really angry. I just found my style; it had nothing to do with Nate. So I started trying to make my choices more obvious and more pronounced with jewelry and black nail polish just to piss him off more.

I fully admit that I feel a soft sense of satisfaction when I see his reaction tonight. He looks me over and clears his throat when he meets my eyes.

“All ready, then?” he asks. He’s not going to say anything because he knows at this point he won’t win. But I see the frustration in his face.

I nod, and we head out to his car. As soon as he starts it, he cranks up the heat. It’s well into October now, Halloween only two weeks away, and the air is completely chilled.

My dad makes small talk on the way to the restaurant, asking about work and my friends. I fill him in with as much as I’m comfortable sharing, mostly short, clipped answers. I don’t ask him many questions about what he’s been doing or how he is. I’ve learned it’s sort of pointless to do so, and I really don’t care anymore.

It’s not a long drive, and before the conversation can get any deeper, we pull into the parking lot outside his favorite Mexican restaurant. Once inside, we’re seated quickly, and the server brings us both margaritas before taking our order for dinner. My dad takes a long sip of his margarita and then sits back in the booth, latching his hands behind his head.

“So, Darian,” he starts.

I heave a big sigh.

“Your mother and I have been talking, and we think it would be best if we sold the house and got a smaller place for your mom and me while we figure out what’s happening next.”

I stare at him, spinning my butter knife under my finger on the table.

He continues. “It’s a big house, and maintenance is a lot for us. Neither of us are ever there, so it makes sense to let it go.”