Page 144 of Bloom

He smiles. “Yeah.”

“Luna would throw someone through a wall for you.”

A loud, proud laugh rips from his throat. “Damn right she would.”

Unsurprisingly, the front door is unlocked.

I fight back the wave of shame that hits me as I push it open and lead Jackson inside, exposing him to the mess I’ve hid for so many years. It threatens to drown me when we find my dad exactly where I thought I’d find him—sprawled on the couch, snores spilling from his open mouth.

Either that swollen, bruised nose isn’t actually broken or he was too drunk to make it to the emergency room and get it fixed—or he was too drunk to feel the pain that would drive him there, more likely. The gash on his cheek hasn’t been dealt with either, they haven’t been cleaned and soothed like mine, and I clench my hands in tight fists as the instinctive urge to take care of him washes over me.

For a moment, I just stare at him. I try really, really hard to see beneath the yellow fingernails and the unkempt scruff and the awful memories. My failure settles beneath my skin. It pools at the base of my spine and spreads upwards, settling in my heart and hardening it.

“You can wait in the hall,” I tell Jackson, whose mouth settles in a disapproving straight line. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

He doesn’t look happy about it, but he begrudgingly steps out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

Dad doesn’t stir as I perch on the wobbly coffee table. Nor when I call out gently. It takes a prod on the shoulder, a couple of them, for bloodshot eyes to fly open. He jolts at the sight of me, his broken face contorting with ugly fury as he struggles to sit up. He grumbles something unintelligible, and I don’t give him the chance to conjure up anything comprehensible enough to hurt me—to deter me.

“I’m done,” I say, weak and quiet, but that’s okay—at least I’m saying it. “I’m done taking care of you. I’m done covering for you. I can’t do it anymore.”

I let him get out a scoff, that’s all I let him do, before pushing on. “If Mom saw you treating me like this, if you treated her like this, she would leave, and she would never come back.”

He sits up so fast I almost fall off the table with how quickly I recoil. “Don’t talk about your mother.”

Getting to my feet, I put some distance between us. I glance at the doorway and see the curve of Jackson’s shoulder as he leans against the wall. Reassured by the sight, I fold my arms over my chest and turn my attention back to my dad. “She would hate this. She would hateyou.”

Red creeps up Dad’s neck, smoke practically pouring from his ears. “Watch yourself, Caroline.”

“I’vebeenwatching myself. I’ve been so careful. I’ve been killing myself, Dad,you’vebeen killing me, and you don’t care.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“You hurt me last night, and you don’t care.”

Still, nothing. No denial. No regret.Nothing.

“I cried at her funeral and you called me weak. Do you remember that?”

He doesn’t. It’s written all over his face, clear as day, that he doesn’t, and I don’t even know why I’m surprised. I don’t know why it makes me so upset when I’m prepared for it, why I have to take a second before choking out what else I prepared. “I wassupposedto be weak, I was a kid. I didn’t need to be strong. I needed to be safe and loved, and I needed my dad, but I don’t anymore. I have people who love me. Who don’t think I’m weak or stupid or pathetic because I’m not. But if I was, I would get it from you.”

“How fucking dare you.” Dad lunges, but he doesn’t get far. He’s slow, still half drunk, stumbling over the coffee table, andby the time he rights himself, Jackson is there. Grabbing my dad by the shoulder, easily dodging him when he makes a swing at him, and forcing him to sit again.

“Stupid fucking boy.” Dad sneers at my ex almost as viciously as he sneers at me. “Came crawling back, did you?”

Jackson doesn’t bother with a response, and I can tell his silence really bothers Dad because when he swivels back to me, there’s an air of desperation to his scorn; like he can’t bear the indifference. “Where’s the big guy, huh? He sick of you already.”

“Try to contact me again and next time, I’ll bring him.”

It’s the only threat I have—the only incentive to stay away, I realize with terrifying clarity—but it’s a pretty good one. And for now, it works.

When Jackson lets him go, Dad doesn’t make another move towards me. He huffs and grunts and swears, and flops back against the sofa cushions, and that’s the last image of him that sears himself into my brain.

A crumpled, angry drunk.

I don’t say goodbye. I walk out, dropping my front door key on the coffee table as I go. I get in the car, I buckle up, and, after Jackson follows suit, I make it all the way down the street before I start to shake. Before my thoughts start to run wild wondering how long it’ll be until, despite whatever effort I make, I bump into him around town. I wonder how I’ll be able to sleep at night, alone in my ramshackle apartment, knowing he’s only a few blocks away. I wonder when the sound of my ringtone will stop making my skin crawl.

I wonder whenthecall will come. The one that bolsters the guilt coiling in my guilt—that confirms abandoning my dad is a death sentence.

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