Worth the Trouble ✓

23 | forever like this

DO I WAIT FOR DAD to be completely drunk or completely sober to tell him that Suki's pregnant?

On the one hand, if I told him while he was drunk, he might be so far gone that he'd literally pass out from shock.

On the other, if he was sober, I would actually get the feedback and answers I wanted of him. Would he be supportive? Could I trust him to be civil and refrain from saying inflammatory things if Suki ever came over to the house? What is his stance on money?

I kind of need him sober to answer those questions.

In the end, I settle for a median point between drunk and sober. Dad is sitting in the armchair, watching the football. He's drunk enough to be nicely mellowed out, sober enough to have the coherent conversation I need to have with him. After doing my science homework for the night, I creep down the stairs.

Dad doesn't spare me a glance as I stand in the doorway, but I know he notices me. The way he swills the beer bottle is too controlled. I clear my throat, and his eyes flicker to me over the length of the bottle. "You remember Suki?"

Dad finishes the beer before speaking. He smacks his lips and belches. "Yeah. Finally break up with her?"

"No," I snap.

Dad furrows his brows, prompting me to spit it out. Just say it. Just say it. Just—

"She's pregnant."

The silence that follows reminds me of free fall. I've dropped a nuclear bomb, and it hasn't the the ground yet.

My fists grip my trousers so tightly that they've turned into two balls of white-hot burning steel.

Dad levels a dangerously calm look at me. "Come again?"

I shake my head, my whole body trembling.

"Say it again, Terrence."

For a moment, Dad and I stare each other down. His eyes are surprisingly alert, focused on a single point between my eyes. I can see the trembling rage in his irises, and behind that, emptiness.

I avert my gaze to the floor, and whisper, "She's pregnant."

More silence. As soon as I raise my head, a piercing smash echoes through the living room. Dad moves so quickly that I can't catch the motion; one second he's glaring at me, the next a large wet patch is on the wall behind the TV. Following the sound of smashing glass, the wet patch grows and darkens as the beer seeps into the creamy wallpaper.

"Fuck." A wrangled chuckle rips out of him. "Fuck!"

Another bark of laughter, this time hysterical, and then he's lunging out of the armchair for me.

"You fucking moron. I always thought you had enough wits about you to handle yourself, but clearly, you don't. What the fuck? How could you be so stupid? The only thing you needed to know was to wrap it the fuck up! And you fucked it up! You fucked it all up!"

Dad is in my face yelling, spittle and venom landing on my face. I flinch away. "Dad—"

"Now, look what you made me do!"

It's as if he just noticed the beer stain on the wall, as if he wasn't the one to throw the bottle. He points accusingly towards it.

"Do you want me to be angry? To scream at you?"

"Dad—"

"Get out."

He steps back out of my personal space, turning around and running a hand through his thinning hair.