“I’m home!” I announce after stepping inside the house and shutting the door behind me.
I toss my book bag against the wall in the hallway and dart upstairs, knowing that’s where Richard has been spending most of his time as of late, and find him in the office.
He’s slouched back in the comfy desk chair we purchased months ago, still in the clothes he slept in last night, unshaved, looking exhausted and possibly irritated, I can’t tell. The two seem to go hand in hand these days. Head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes unfocused, a bottle in his hand. Whiskey, by the looks of it. While two empty beer cans lay scattered on the desk amongst my school papers, laptop, and the bills I’m waiting to pay.
“Hey.” I lean against the doorframe and wrap my hand around my forearm. “How’d it go today? Any luck?”
Richard doesn’t turn his head or acknowledge me, meaning he’s not possibly irritated. He’s absolutely irritated.
He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig of the amber colored liquid.
“Well, you know, that’s okay. Tomorrow’s another day, right?” I step into the room. “I bet you’ll find something tomorrow.”
“You know how annoying you’re being right now?” He slowly turns his head.
I stop a foot away from the desk when our eyes lock. I see the anger in his.
“Quit with the positivity bullshit, Ri,” he snaps. “I’m sick of hearing it.”
I shrug. “Sorry. I’m just—”
“You’re just making it worse, all right?” he interrupts. “I don’t need you telling me I’m gonna find a job and shoving down my fucking throat how qualified I am and then saying shit about how people are crazy if they don’t hire me, and how you would hire me. What the fuck? You think that shit helps?” He takes another swig from the bottle, then jerks forward and slams the laptop closed. “There’s no fucking jobs available right now,” he spits. “There’s nothing. How many times do I gotta tell you that? I can’t get hired if I can’t fucking apply to anything.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just . . .” I step closer until I’m standing beside the desk. “Please be careful with that,” I request, pointing at the laptop. “I need it for school.”
He sets the bottle on the desk and rakes his hands down his face. “Right,” he murmurs before slamming back in the chair. He tilts his head up and glares at me. “Looks like you’re the one who’ll be providing for us so I guess I should be careful with the shit I bought you, back when I was working.”
I feel my mouth grow tight.
Is Richard being rude and taking his frustrations out on me?
Absolutely.
Do I understand his frustration and know he really doesn’t mean what he’s saying?
Yes. This isn’t him.
This is our bump.
Which is why I relax my mouth into a smile and let him see it before climbing onto his lap.
He doesn’t reach out for me or draw me closer. He keeps his arms on the armrests.
“I think tonight will be good for you,” I tell him, pulling my knees up, kissing his scratchy jaw and then resting my head on his shoulder while my fingers play in the frayed edges of his sleeve. “It’ll get your mind off everything. Let you relax a little. You need it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks.
“The concert.” I angle my head up and meet his eyes. “Remember? We’ve got tickets to see The Killers.”
Richard stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You think I’m going to that shit after the day I’ve had?” He bumps my chest with his, signaling for me to climb off.
I twist in his lap, sitting tall so I can see him better. I do not climb off.
His arms stay on the armrests.
“Why wouldn’t you go? You love them.”
“No, I don’t,” he bites out. “You love them. When have you ever heard me listening to their music?”
“But, you got us tickets.”
“Yeah, so you could take one of your friends. I never planned on going.”
I look at him, my brow furrowing.
He never told me that. I would’ve said I wanted to go with him. I know I would’ve.
I relax my face and push my fingers through his dark hair until he yanks back, pulling out of reach, then I drop my hand to his shoulder. “I want to go with you,” I tell him. “I don’t want to go with a friend.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles coldly.
“Please?”
His face hardens.
“Jesus, Ri. No. What—”
“Please,” I repeat, my voice shaking and stress filled as I resort to begging. “Please go with me. I want us to do something together. Something out of this house. We stay in all the time now. We don’t do anything. You’re job hunting and I’m watching you job hunt, and I feel like we need this. You’re so stressed, Richard. It’ll be good to get out. And look, we don’t have to stay the whole time. We can leave whenever you’re ready. I promise. And you can continue drinking. I don’t mind. I’ll drive. Just go with me.” I hold his face with both of my hands and force him to look at me when his eyes start sliding away. “We used to do stuff together like this all the time. I miss it. Don’t you?”
“Shit’s different now. I can’t afford stuff like this.”
“Tickets are already paid for. There’s free parking on the street. And you can sneak in your own booze. People do that, I think.”
He inhales a slow, deep breath.
It’s tense and tight and I think he’s going to tell me no, and I don’t know why, it’s a stupid concert, it’s nothing, but my lip starts trembling.
I duck my chin so he can’t see it.
What’s wrong with me? Why is this so important?
I’m worried. I’m stressed out and sick with worry.
“Fine,” he grunts after several seconds, huffing out all the air in his lungs.
I lift my chin and look into his eyes.
“But I’m drinking. You’re driving. And when I say it’s time to go, it’s fucking time to go. You give me shit about me wanting to leave and we’re gonna have problems.”
“I won’t!” I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. Relief floods my veins and warms my skin all over. “I won’t give you shit! I promise! And it’ll be fun, you’ll see. We’ll have so much fun.”