Page 219 of Story of My Life
“I’d hardly call your stroke and Laura’s accident ‘bumps.’”
“Detours then,” he conceded.
“Dad, I really don’t feel like talking about this right now.”
“Well, tough shit. Because you’re not getting out of this room until you hear what I’ve got to say.”
On a sigh, I slumped into the chair. “Fine. Let’s hear it.”
Dad looked down at the paper again. “You were a good boy who grew into a good man. But sometimes I can’t help feeling like I failed you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re shit at talking about your feelings just like I am,” he said, waving his notes as evidence.
“We’re Bishops. Bishops don’t talk about feelings. Hell, we might not have feelings other than grumpy and hungry.”
Dad didn’t laugh like I expected him to.
He tugged at his earlobe. “Why’d you break up with Hazel?”
“That’s between her and me.”
“Fine. Then I’ll just speculate along with everyone else. I think you got scared and decided to run.”
“I didn’t get scared. And if I was gonna run, it would be a hell of a lot farther than just a few blocks away.”
“You best spit it out before you lose him, Frank,” Mom called from outside the door.
“I’m gettin’ to it,” he yelled back.
I reached over and opened the door. “You wanna join us?” I asked.
Mom leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “You’re being a big-ass chicken, and you hurt someone to save yourself the pain.”
I had immediate regrets about opening the door.
“Hazel and I are two different people who want different things,” I insisted. “I don’t owe you or anyone an explanation.”
“‘Different things?’ Seems to me that she wants to live in this town and be part of this family,” Dad mused with another tug at his earlobe.
“This is bullshit,” I complained.
Mom cuffed me on the back of the head. “Shut up and listen.”
“Why are we talking about this? You don’t bust on Gage when he breaks up with some girl,” I pointed out.
“Hazel isn’t just ‘some girl,’ and Gage hasn’t fallen in love yet,” Mom said.
“And you’re saying I have?” My heart did a weird flip-flop in my chest.
My mother pointed a triumphant finger in my face. “There! That look right there. Nauseated with a hint of fear. That’s love, kiddo.”
“No, it’s not. It’s…indigestion.”
“You fell for her and you got scared, so you did what you always do. You left,” she said.
Dad nodded his agreement.
