Page 28 of Present Tense

We’re riding along, and Dad is asking Liam about his practice. My father loves the law. He loves everything about practicing it, except the business of it. He let it all slip away, but still reads and watches everything he can. He loves true crime shows and old episodes of the ancient show, L.A. Law. He reads old cases like they’re thriller novels or best-selling books.

“Jillien, are you still slugging it out in your murder city?” I know he’s trying to create a debate. He’s done it my whole life. It looks cruel to other people, but honestly, it’s how he communicates with me sometimes. He’ll take a point completely opposite of rational thought and defend it. My job is to argue the counterpoint.

I see Fletch’s eyes narrow as he says it. He doesn’t understand.

I nod and let him know I’m ok and I got this. “Didn’t realize Chicago got a new nickname, or are you just making facts out of opinions from YouTube now?”

He laughs as I draw first blood in our battle.

“Considering there were thirty-six murders last weekend, that hardly counts as opinion. Where are your facts, buttercup?”

I pull out one I’ve been holding onto. “Now, counselor…” His laugh fills the car as he knows I’m trying to best him. I lean between the seats and make my case.

“When you asked about my murder city, did you mean Philly or Chicago? Because last I looked, Chicago is number twenty-nine in the highest murder rates in the US, and Philadelphia sits comfortably at sixteen. Fascinating information, huh?”

“For now. Case closed. How’s Chicago?”

I sit back and smile. Fletch is beaming. I would’ve made a hell of a lawyer. But sadly, the only time I truly know my father loves me or respects me is when we’re battling. I never wanted to show love through war, so no law school for me.

After shoving a way too familiar meal of Cobb salad and French onion soup down, I’m vaguely satisfied. I really wanted more oysters. My father is showing off for Liam. My dad speaks of people who’ve either died or disappeared from his life long ago as if they’re current, and the stories he’s telling are fresh. I don’t know if that’s a hazy cognitive thing from a lifetime of sipping Scotch like it was an Olympic sport, or if he’s starting to slip. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

My brother isn’t here to help figure it out. I am. I’m constantly evaluating if he’s ok. Or what he needs. Does he need new sheets? Did he show up to his doctor appointments? What’s the state of his sneakers? Is there someone paying attention to his moods? Did he drink? Is he thinking about it? It’s exhausting.

He leans back with a loose smile, spies an old-school waitress, and shakes his Sprite at her. Then says, “Are you going to be able to hold on to Liam?” My body freezes, and Liam’s face falls. Why does he save this shit for me?

I stutter for a response as Bonnie delivers his Sprite. She smiles at me and squeezes my dad’s shoulder. These waitresses have been flirting with him for decades. He’s a good-looking man with gray hair, the dark brown just a memory, but his eyes still appear kind. Ironic. My father quickly fishes out a lime from his Sprite, puts it on a plate, and takes a deep drink.

Fletch breaks the tension and says, “I’d be lucky to hold on to her, sir.”

My father huffs under his breath. This was such a mistake. “Dad, what’s your problem with me today?”

His cruel focus zeroes in on me. No one can witness his words, and apparently, he’s deluded into thinking Fletch is on his side of the demeaning line. The waitress’s eyes are gone, and a switch has flipped. His voice is cutting and cold. “Well, you were always jumping from boy to boy growing up, and you couldn’t hold on to your marriage.”

I interrupt this cataclysmically horrible statement. He always liked Christopher. Everyone does. He’s charming and slick, like my dad. I say to him, “How many you on? I fucked-up one marriage, but you’ve got a hat trick of failed marriages, don’t you?” My stomach is nauseous instantly, and I don’t know where my confidence is coming from.

“Look who thinks they’re clever enough to hold on to a quality man.” He sips, and I put my hand up to Fletcher and shake my head. I see him saddling up to be the cavalry. I shift in my chair and Liam ignores me.

He says, “I’m not going anywhere. And just a side note, as an intense observer of Jillien’s love life growing up, I believe there were only two real boyfriends.” This is going to be messy. No one corrects him when he’s like this. It’s not worth it, it’s best to just let my Dad extract his victory. It’s fine. And it’s a lie. We’re not actually together like that, so when we go our separate ways, his victory will be all the sweeter.

“Seems she was a little more active than that, if I recall. Little frivolous, loose, and free. She’s lucky she has a roof over her head with all the nonsense floating around in that brain of hers.” Liam clenches his fists and places them on the table.

Oh. God. I’m dying. I can’t look at Liam. This is as bad as when he’s—oh fuck. My body freezes in revelation. I eye the lime on his bread plate, and he moves at the same time as me to grab it. I’m faster. I snatch it and put it in my mouth. Tears flood my eyes involuntarily, and I bite them back. I look down at my lap and pull out my phone. I call an Uber and punch in my dad’s address.

I spit the lime into my napkin. I kiss my father on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

“Where do you think you’re going? Sit down.”

Liam jumps up and doesn’t say a word.

“There will be a white Honda Accord out front for you in twenty minutes. I love you.” Sometimes I say it, so he remembers I’m on his side. And sometimes to remind myself.

I’m embarrassing him by leaving. Those aren’t the rules. You don’t embarrass, you don’t talk, you don’t cause a scene, and you keep family secrets. But apparently, it’s ok to embarrass me, as long as I don’t talk about the alcohol.

Bonnie’s standing at the hostess stand when we round the corner. “Good to see you again, hon.”

I scoff at her and walk by. “You’re killing him.” Fletch quickens his pace, grabbing our coats at the coat check.

“We’re all responsible for ourselves in the end, dear.” I hate that she’s right.