Just a Number(94)

He still hasn’t said a word, and I honestly don’t even know what he would say at this point, so I’m surprised when the first words out of his mouth are, “Carla’s known all along.”

I swallow so thickly, it’s audible. “She has… She, um, saw us over Christmas and confronted us. I asked her to keep it from you until we could talk to you, so please don’t be angry with her.”

He doesn’t appear angry—a little more hurt about the fact that the entire world seems to be in on this whole thing, perhaps, but not angry.

I wait next to him for whatever he might offer up next, but when he fails to say anything else, I sigh, defeated. Holding back tears, I snatch the keys off the table and head for the door, not wanting him to see how hurt I am by his unwillingness to participate. But before I can walk through the door, I stop, glancing down at the ground.

The minute I close the door, the first of several tears fall. It had taken a really long pep-talk on the drive here to even get me out of the car and through the front door, and what does he have to say? Absolutely fucking zilch.

I came here to try to help him understand and he just sits there, occasionally shooting me a glare because he didn’t like what I had to say. I didn’t expect him to just come around and accept it right away—obviously—but it would have been nice had he acknowledged even one damn thing I said. Did I want him to yell and scream at me and ask me what the hell I was thinking?

Well…no. I don’t think so, anyway. I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if the silent treatment is better than him yelling and treating me like the child I no longer am.

My conclusion: they both suck. I don’t want either. I want him to just…understand. Is that too much to ask?

Of course it is, because if I put myself in his shoes, I know I’d be just as upset. Not only did he find out Owen and I have been seeing each other, but we kept it from him. How will he ever be able to trust us again?

I slide into the driver’s seat of Owen’s car and sit there for a few minutes, going over everything I said and trying to decipher his expressions by memory. The more I think about it, the more I recognize that he definitely didn’t seem as angry…until I mentioned that this was all kind of his idea. I don’t think he appreciated that much—hence why I backpedalled.

But there it was; that one tiny glimmer that he was on his way to understanding. Sure, he’s still got a long way to go before he reaches acceptance, but I’ll take understanding. Baby steps, and all that.

Sniffling, I pull the visor down and look in the mirror. My eyes appear more blue than gray and are red and puffy, the whites completely bloodshot, and my cheeks are wet with tears. I wipe them away with my fingers and try to calm myself enough that I can drive. I’m in no condition to brave the highway just yet, so I decide to head down to the diner for a coffee and maybe a bite to eat.

My stomach growls, agreeing wholeheartedly with that idea.

I’m not sure I’ll leave for the city after eating or if I’ll try talking to my dad again. Perhaps I’ll give myself time to think about it and go from there. Yeah. That’s a good idea.

Happy with this impromptu plan, I put the Lexus into gear and head toward the diner. It’s not far from the house—I probably could have walked—so it doesn’t take long to get there. The smells that greet me upon entering are inviting and familiar, and I take mine and my dad’s usual seat in the corner by the window. It’s merely out of habit, and as I pull my chair out, I smile fondly, remembering all the Saturday night dinners here.

While I wait for my BLT and fries, I go over everything I said to my dad again. I realize I’m obsessing over the entire interaction, but I can’t help it. Until he comes around, I think this is what’s going to occupy every waking thought.

When my lunch arrives, I eat a few fries. This whets my appetite, and I dig into my sandwich. I’m suddenly ravenous, and when I’m halfway through my meal, the bell over the door chimes, and I look up out of habit.

Instantly, I’m stunned into silence, nearly choking on the small bite in my mouth, when I see my dad saunter in. His hands are in the pockets of his work jacket, and he greets the serving staff with a tip of his head…before he looks over to find me at our table. It’s a bizarre coincidence that he’d turn up here, and I feel like he hesitates before taking the first of several steps toward me, stopping at the table and looking down at me. We stare at one another for a very awkward minute or two before he clears his throat and glances out the window, his eyebrows pulling together like he’s concentrating on something in the distance. He’s not; this is classic Alan avoidance. I used to think it was adorable when he got nervous like this…that was before I was on the receiving end of it.