Page 20 of The Probability of Us

Peter smiles. “Have a good night, Analise.”

I just nod as my smile waivers, because with where I’m going tonight, it’s bound to be anything but a good night. “You too.”

Warren glances back before he leaves and I’m not sure if the look in his eyes is because of how our conversation went or because he could read the hesitation on my face about my night. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it’s all I can think about on the drive to the suburbs where I grew up.

I take a deep breath after I park in front of the familiar tan house before I work up the nerve to get out of the car. Even though I only come back once a year now, it doesn’t get any easier.

“Hello?” I call as I unlock the door with my spare key. I don’t even try to knock, it’d be useless.

The lights are off, but I hear noises coming from the kitchen, so I head in that direction. I flick on the lights as I move through the house until I reach the kitchen and there he is, digging through the liquor cabinet.

At least he’s off the couch. That’s a good sign, right?

“Did you bring bourbon?” he grumbles out in a slur of words.

Maybe not.

“Hi, Dad,” I sigh. “Nice to see you too.”

“Whatever, do you have bourbon or not?”

“No.”

“Useless fucking bitch,” he grumbles loud enough for me to hear, and I flinch, even after all this time. I still hope that one of these times I’ll walk through that door and find my old dad—the kind, sweet man who showed up to every volleyball game I played in growing up. Instead, he grabs a bottle of whisky and drinks it straight from the bottle. “Just like your mother.”

My teeth grind together in frustration. “You didn’t start drinking bourbon until after she died.”

“No one asked you.” His voice raises.

Why do I still come here? Why do I put myself through this each year?

My eyes shift to their wedding picture still hanging on the wall.She’swhy.

“Could you not drink for one night?” I plead. “If not for me, then to honor her memory?”

It’s the five year anniversary of her passing, and I don’t think I’ve seen him sober once in that time. He stares me in the eyes as he lifts the bottle he just found to his lips and takes a long swig.

“She’d be so disappointed in who you’ve become.” I try a different route, anything that will make him put down the drink even for a minute.

His eyes flare with anger, and before I can register what’s happening, the glass cup on the counter is flying at my head. I manage to move out of its direct path, but it shatters on the wall behind me and I’m close enough that shards of glass fly toward my face. As the sound of glass stills, I press two fingers to my stinging cheek, pulling them away to find a line of blood.

“How dare you tell me what she’d feel,” he spits at me. “She fucking left us; she doesn’t get a say anymore. Fuck her and fuck you. Get out of my house.”

“Dad—”

“Get the fuck out,” he screams as he reaches for another glass.

I turn and walk out before the contents of my stomach end up on his kitchen floor, and heave in a breath when I step onto the front porch. My eyes widen when the handle on the door turns, and I run down the driveway to my car. He must be really drunk if he’s following me out here. He usually forgets about me once I’m out of sight.

I stop to catch my breath in the car, but he starts stomping down the driveway, so I put the car in drive and go. I call Ali over Bluetooth on the way home with a tight voice and one hand pressing a napkin to my cheek and ask if she can meet me at my place.

She must’ve heard the distress in my voice because she shows up with an overnight bag and immediately comes over to comfort me where I’ve been since I got home: curled up in a fetal position, sobbing, on my couch.

“What did he do to you?” she whispers as she strokes my hair. She takes the damp towel from my hand to wipe the skin around the cut and I wince.

“Threw a glass at me,” I choke out between sobs.

“Analise,” she says, voice cracking, “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go there anymore.”

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