Sasquatch to the Moon

38: Just the Tomatoes are Burnt

MILO

Green paint. Peeling green paint.

"He hasn't done any work since we left, has he?" I ask Rey. She shrugs.

"No, not any."

We headed back for an early dinner with the Svoboda's before they wished us luck with Dad. I had always only halfway missed Mrs Svoboda's cooking. She was good at it, mostly culture accurate dishes, but they packed quite the punch to the gut and I have a funky little feeling I'm going to be feeling that bread in the pit of my stomach for a couple days. It's delicious, I will not lie, but oof.

I pull in a sharp breath. "Here goes nothing, huh?"

"Yeah, here it goes," Rey grabs the door and pulls it open. It still creaks. "Dad!"

"Hey Rey!" He calls. "C'mere I think I burnt the soup but you gotta tell me if you think I did." I almost stop breathing, alarmed and met with a wave of deja vu that's so potent I swear I can feel it hit me physically.  

"Can you come here?"

"No, m'busy." He calls back. "Just- give me a second, I've got... things in my hands."

Rey looks up at me. "We should just walk in there."

"Yeah, probably."

"Who's with you, Rey? Haven't heard that voice before."

Rey starts walking toward the kitchen but I haven't gotten over the entryway. Smaller. It's so much smaller. I run my fingers over the shelf on the side of the door, a fringe of dust, and... photos. My hand shakes as I reach for it, one of the last full family photos I know of.

Rey grabs my hand, pulling me gently away from the pictures of her in high school and Dad, the first time I've seen him since thirteen, and-

"Milo," she mumbles. "C'mon. More time to look later."

"I-I-" I peel my eyes away, looking up to see the door frame to the living room is still sort of coming away from the siding. She pulls me gently into the living room and it's like a fucking time capsule. He hasn't changed a single thing, that's still the same couch and the same-

My first goalie stick is still leaning in the corner. I swallow the knot in my throat.

"Dad," it catches my attention back, Reyna is pulling me through the door to the kitchen.

Then I'm caught, because that's sure as fucking hell my father. It's me. Staring me right in the face. Salt and pepper hair, aged up a little but... me.

"Uh-" I clear my throat. "Hi."

The spoon he was holding clatters into the pot of soup, hand flying to his mouth. For a moment, all we can do is stare. My sight catches on the battered up wedding band still around his finger, a pang going through my heart knowing mom hasn't worn hers since she left. I take in his almost military haircut, not a strand has changed position, only color. His eyes are tired, more exhausted than I've ever seen anyone's before now. 

All I can do is stare. He's shorter than me. That was my thing as a kid, I wanted to be taller. 

I guess I'm taller. 

"Milo..." he mumbles, then reaches out, up, really, setting his hand on the side of my face.

I know anything I say will come out as stupid so I just smile, barely able to conceptualize what's going on.

He slips his hand around to the back of my neck and then yanks me down into the fiercest hug I've gotten all day. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't, I didn't know what I was saying, I know nothing can-can forgive what I did and I'll die sorry for it but I-"