Page 47 of Desperate Haste

“Pretty name.”

“Pretty girl,” I nearly whisper, allowing the images of her smile and head in my lap from a few weeks ago fill my brain. How her fingers felt in my hair as she braided it and how she felt draped over me, fast asleep, our breath synchronizing in perfect harmony.

“You like this girl.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Like he knows as much as I do how true that is.

Knowing there’s no sense in pretending with him because he sees through me like I’m a piece of glass, I nod. “I like her a lot.”

“And there’s an issue?” He raises a brow as I lean back in the chair, resting my head on the wall behind me.

“No, well, I don’t know. She just, it’s just…”

“You know, for a guy who always has his nose in a book, you’re doing a pretty shit job at using your words,” he chides and we both laugh.

“She’s amazing, but she doesn’t do relationships?—”

“So she’s you?” he deadpans, cutting me off.

“Would you let me finish?” I sigh and he raises his hands in apology and to signal me to continue.

“Yeah, she’s me. Doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t date, and doesn’t want labels. But, for the first time Idowant all of those things and I want them with her. I don’t know, I guess I just don’t want to force her into something she doesn’t want.” I run my fingers through my hair and sigh again. I’ve done this circle in my head for weeks now. I like her, a lot, and for the first time in my life I want to be able to call someone my girlfriend. But she doesn’t want that and I’m worried about trying to convince her otherwise. The last thing I want is for her to feel trapped in something she doesn’t want.

“Can I give you a piece of advice from an old man like me who’s been around the block once or twice?”

“You’re not old,” I interject, looking at him again.

“Oh shut the hell up and listen,” he gripes. “If you like this girl, like you say you do, just keep showing her you care. Treat her right, don’t be an idiot, and let her come to you. You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I shake my head when he looks at me.

“And you’re not going to do anything dumb to fuck this up?” I shake my head again.

“Then just be a gentleman and do right by her. Women like it when men do that. Show her you care, that you’re there for her and that she can trust you.”

I look at the man who’s been more like a father figure to me for the last five years and for the first time really take in his features. Deep green eyes that remind me of a soft patch of grass and cracks and crevices in his skin that show off all the life he’s lived. His hair is thin and his bushy gray eyebrows are wild and carefree, the last remaining remnants of the type of man he used to be. He drops a hard hand on my knee and gives me a tired smile.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I hope you do. And if that fails, well, who the hell am I to give advice? I’ve been divorced three times.” He gives me a curt nod and doubles over in laughter. After collecting himself, his face morphs into a solemn expression.

“What?” I ask, furrowing my brows at him.

“How are you feeling with Christmas coming up? Are you spending it with your mom and dad?”

Oh.The mention of my parents causes a sense of shame and disappointment to wash over me. Two emotions I never feel short of when it comes to them. I purse my lips and bite the inside of my cheek before speaking. “Yeah, I’m spending a few days at their place. Umma’s really excited to have me spending the holiday with them but you know how my dad feels about me.”

“Your father loves you,” he says more confidently than I feel about it.

“My father loves when I stay away. I’m the family disgrace, remember?” After I was released from rehab, I attempted to live at home for a few months. But the tension between my father and I became too much to handle and my desire to use again became too strong so I moved out with Marshall’s help. He set me up in my current apartment and helped me pay my rent until I had earned enough at the bar to cover my own expenses. He became more like a father to me than my own because my own wanted nothing to do with me.

The pressure to perform and succeed matched with unrealistic expectations set by my parents is what pushed me to use in the first place. The deep seeded need to please them, to make them proud, to achieve their dreams, is what forced me over the edge as I worked to push myself to greater heights. On my way to making them proud, I developed the toxic coping skills of popping pills and going on weekend long benders. When I got clean, I dropped out of school to focus on my recovery and in return, dropped out of my parents’ good graces.

Their only son, a junkie.

In other words—a failure.

After I moved out, I didn’t hear from either of them for weeks until one day, I got a message from my mom. She and I had always been close. She showed me care and compassion as I grew up and never hesitated to show me I was loved. But she also loved my father and was raised to be a traditional Korean woman. I’ll never forget how it felt to get a message from her for the first time. We stayed in touch this way for months. I asked how she and dad were doing and she asked me about my friends and the bar. After a year or so, we met for probably the most uncomfortable cup of coffee I’ve ever had, but it was a step. I only recently started talking to my dad again and even then, it’s in short bursts. This is the first Christmas we will spend together in years.

“You’re not a disgrace, son.” The feeling of Marshall’s hand on my shoulder grounds me and helps to dispel some of the guilt I feel chewing away at my heart. “You went through a rough patch, but you got through it. Grew through it. You need to remember that.”

I blow out a breath. “I know.”

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