Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“Okay.” He smiles weakly. “I’ll text you later.”
“Whatever.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
I turn around and leave.
DADDY ISSUES (AND NOT THE HOT KIND)
FELIX
MY DAD STAYS passed out for most of the day.
I’m not surprised. He’s probably drunk or sleeping off one hell of a hangover. It’s sad that after this long, I’m still positive he’s the same guy I’ve known my entire life.
I doubt a sober person would’ve broken into my house, trashed the kitchen, and shit themselves in my bed.
Fuck. I don’t want to deal with this.
I clean up the mess he made downstairs and repair the lock on the door as best as I can.
I’d go to the hardware store and get a replacement, but I want to know what all I’m in for the second my dad wakes up.
He has two moods when he’s drunk: Mean and the happiest guy in the world, looking to party.
And if he’s sober? He’s a giant asshole.
It’s almost five o’clock when I sit at the bottom of the steps and lean my head against the rail. I was so happy earlier, and now…
I’m pissed my day was ruined and anxious about what I’m about to encounter.
And why try and deny it—I miss Jake.
We were supposed to have the whole day, and we were going to do—fuck if I know. Whatever we wanted. I don’t even know if he had any plans for us, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I would’ve been happy just hanging out here.
Besides Dean, Jake is the only person I’ve wanted to be around in a long time.
Part of me wishes he was still here, and that I wasn’t so worried about what he would think of me after coming face to face with the only family I have left.
But even if my dad didn’t smell like shit rolled in older shit, I know what he’s like. I know how he acts around people, even if he isn’t drunk or high.
He’s a shady piece of shit who tries to swindle and steal, and who only looks out for himself. He isn’t someone I ever want to introduce to anyone.
Especially people I care about.
The sound of a gagging cough makes me cringe, and then there’s movement on the hardwood floor—slow, sluggish steps—and the shower turns on. The old pipes groan inside the walls.
I stall for another five minutes, and then I push myself up and climb the stairs.
Now or never.
The stench is worse now than it was hours ago. Fucking awesome. It makes my eyes water when I enter the room and bile churn in my stomach, and I have to breathe in and out through my mouth, my shirt pulled up over my nose.
I don’t even look at the bed. I’m sure it’s bad.
I step over discarded boots and push the bathroom door open. The room is filled with steam.
“Dad.”
He gargles shower water and spits. “Yeah.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Such a nice welcome home for your old man, Felix. I see you changed the locks.”
“Yeah. Didn’t help much, did it?”
The shithead laughs.
“Bring me some clothes, will ya?” he asks. “And toss the ones on the floor in the wash for me.”
“Fuck you. Do your own laundry.”
“Jesus. What’s your problem?”
“You broke into my house! The kitchen was trashed, and then you took a shit in my bed. It fucking stinks in here. What do you think my problem is?”
“I didn’t take a shit in your bed. I shit, and then took a nap. Couldn’t make it to the toilet, kid. It happens.”
The shower water cuts off and the curtain is pushed open.
I avert my eyes to the floor while he grabs a towel and secures it around his waist.
“How long are you staying around this time?” I ask.
“For as long as I want. What’s it to you?”
“I’m clean now. You can’t stay here if you’re going to get fucked up. Not even drinking. I mean it.”
He snorts, stepping over the pile of rank clothes and swipes his hand across the mirror, clearing the condensation. “Don’t tell me you’re going to those bullshit meetings.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? You still taking it up the ass? Or are you also working on twelve steps to stop being a faggot.”
My gaze snaps to his, and we lock eyes in the mirror. “Don’t fucking push me.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“Kick you out.”
“Last I checked, kid, I still live here.”
“Mom left me the house. It’s been mine since I turned eighteen.”
“Says you.” He swipes my deodorant under his arms, and my teeth grind. “I don’t remember seeing any official paperwork. Show me the deed and I’ll get out.”
The deed? Jesus fucking Christ. He’s really going to make me dig that out?
My head begins to throb. From the stench. From this bullshit conversation. It’s hard to tell.
“Don’t use my fucking toothbrush!”
He snickers as he scrubs at his broken teeth, toothpaste dripping down his chin and getting all over the sink.