Page 86 of Playing With Danger

My father had a total and complete drunken breakdown—twenty-seven years too late—but he’d come apart, nonetheless.

The fallout was ugly, leaving more scars on my already mutilated soul. The only thing that was solved by having a front row seat to my father’s trauma was the understanding I couldn’t change him. I could spend the rest of my life feeling guilty, begging, pleading, wishing, wanting. Until he wanted to deal with the grief in a healthy way there was nothing I could do.

This wasn’t the movies or the 1980’s TV show I once thought my life emulated, with a happy mom and dad and the perfect family who could weather any storm and everything would be fixed in a sixty-minute episode.

This was life.

Gus Malone was an irredeemable alcoholic.

I finally accepted it.

At some point during his break as I watched him throw everything he could get his hands on around the house I came to accept something else. I was not him.

I was me, the kid who had a great start at life. The kid who knew a bounty of love. A kid with a great sister who was sweet, and once I gave myself time to remember her I couldn’t stop thinking about how funny she was. I’d had a mom who baked really great birthday cakes and always made her family feel special. Who loved me.

Then I became the teenager who lost what I’d been granted for a short while.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Life. Loss. Tragedy. I was not special. I was not the only person on the planet who had bad shit happen to them. Neither was my father. Plenty of men tragically lost their wives or children.

I was not Gus Malone.

But I was a coward.

That realization was what drove me to a place I’d never been.

I wish I could say sitting with my mom and sister in a dark cemetery had given me peace, or even a sense of peace, but it didn’t. What I found was closure. The day I watched their caskets being lowered into the ground was the last I’d been there.

Guilt.

I’d given my life over to guilt.

Guilty I was a shit son—I couldn’t save my father from his drinking. I couldn’t find it in me to visit my mom. I didn’t love Vienna enough to put flowers on her grave.

The relief I felt when I found Sophie sleeping on my couch was a living and breathing entity that filled my house with hope.

I’d fucked up—huge.

I had one shot at making this right and suddenly the relief I’d felt turned to fear.

She was it for me.

Before I could decide if I was going to pick Sophie up and take her to my bed or sit on the chair and watch her sleep, her eyes came open.

The prettiest eyes I’d ever seen.

Intelligent eyes that held me hostage.

I knew she saw through me when her expression softened.

But then, she always saw, and I hoped she always would.

Still, I gave her what she needed to hear first.

“I’m sorry for every fucked-up word I said. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I hurt you and I promise you I will never do it again.”

Sophie pushed her hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

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