"Mushroom and onion?" my father called back and I felt myself smile a little.
Familiarity, there really was a certain amount of comfort and happiness in that.
I could get back to that being enough. I knew it.
So then we ordered pizza. I made batter for chocolate macadamia cookies while we waited for delivery and put them in the oven as we ate, my father telling me about the people he met at rehab, the therapists, what the building was like, the grounds, the food. My father, being my father, made every single detail sound like the most fascinating thing you had ever heard in your life before.
We had dessert and he promised me things were changing. And while he was going to crash with me for a short amount of time while he went job hunting and apartment seeking, he guaranteed me that it was temporary, that I would never have to take care of him again. While the practical part of me was skeptical, I was still hopeful. I had been waiting my entire life to have a normal relationship with him.
I made sure he was asleep, closed myself in the bathroom, and cried until I was sure it was all out of me, then convinced myself that was it, it was done, I was over it.
Of course, the next morning proved that false.
Somehow, the ache in my chest felt more acute. I stood in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, wondering why it was so different. I'd loved men before. I had shared my life with people over long periods of time. One would think that those breakups would hurt me worse, would take days, weeks, months to get over. But I always bounced back relatively well. It was in my nature. I learned early to take my hits on the chin and keep moving. That was what the dissolution of relationships had always been like for me. It was a blow. It sent me into a baking or cleaning frenzy. I'd cry. I'd binge watch silly Disney movies. Then I moved on.
It had never felt like a piece of me had been ripped off then washed away.
But then again, none of the men in my life had been anything like Byron.
He was an ocean.
And I would spend my life trying to wring saltwater from my bones.
Unsuccessfully.
"Get a grip," I said to my reflection, disgusted with myself.
He was a lunar eclipse. He was an ocean.
Such bull.
He was just a man. And not a particularly good one either.
The sex was off the charts. But sex wasn't that important.
He could easily read me. But if I could learn to let down my guards a little, other men would be able to as well.
He was rich. But I never cared about that kind of thing.
I nodded at my reflection as I buttoned up my shirt all the way up like Byron hated. If I could just keep the running monologue going for the day, week, month, year, the entirety of what was left of my life... I would be okay. Maybe one day, even great.
At least that was what I needed to make myself believe.
"Alright, Dad, crepes for breakfast?" I asked as I walked out into the living room, expecting to see him still asleep on the couch. But not only was he not there, his blanket was neatly folded with the pillow on top. See, while my dad wasn't exactly a slob, he wasn't a neat freak either. I was constantly having to fold his blanket when he stayed over.
I walked into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee and a handwritten note informing me he was out handing out his resume. Before gambling started taking over most of his life, my father had been a pretty successful salesman. He had the perfect personality for it. But every time he won big, he would quit his job, thinking he was somehow going to turn that 'big' into 'bigger' and we'd be living large in a mansion somewhere being fanned beside the pool and drinking champagne like water.
After a while, he just stopped even trying to hold down a full-time job.
But as I nixed the idea of crepes and ran to the store to stock up on groceries, I felt the hope spreading.
By the time I got back from the market, my father was back in my apartment, still in his suit, sans jacket, flipping through the newspaper. He gave me a smile and prattled on about the places he dropped his resume, sounding optimistic, sounding happy, as I carefully put together a lasagna for us.
I had just pushed it into the oven when he walked back in, brows furrowed, with some paper in one hand and my cell in the other.
"What's up?" I asked, not sure what his expression meant, and I knew my father's expressions pretty damn well.