Fireworks

4

My dad is drunk.

It's about a week after the fire incident with Isa, and I haven't heard from her. I guess I was a little disappointed, but I know she's probably super busy with work, and in all honestly, I have been studying quite a bit. When I'm not studying or reading for pleasure, I'm practicing for my piano recital.

I was sitting on my balcony reading when I heard him pull in.  He backed into a trash can and I could hear him cursing as he fumbled to throw the trash bags back in the bin and set it upright again.

Anger coursed through my body, though I don't move a muscle, not wanting him to know I'm watching him.

How dare he endanger other lives with drunk driving? I thought my dad was smart. Smart enough to work as an anesthesiologist, but I guess not selfless enough to call an Uber. Or call me. I would've picked him up.

I sigh as I watch him trip his way over to the front yard from the curb. It's almost two a.m, I won't be surprised if the neighbors complain about the noise tomorrow. I silently set down my book and exit my room, padding to the front of the house before he can wake up mom and start a fight.

I open the front door and find him sprawled on the front steps, breathing heavily.

"Dad?" I whisper

He lurches upright and spins around upon hearing me. "Jesus, you scared me Hadlee."

His words are slurred and as I come closer to him I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I reach my hand down to help him up and he grabs for it, though he misses the first time and snorts at himself like a child.

My dad's a pretty big dude, though not the tallest. He used to be really athletic in college, and while he may have lost some muscle, he's still well built. This only makes it that much harder for me to help him inside. His arm is slung over my shoulder and for some reason, he thinks it's helpful to fist his hand in my hair.

I kick the door closed behind us and I help him through the living room and into the lounge. There's a big couch in here that I know he sleeps on when he doesn't want to wake my mom after getting home late. Or if he just ticks her off.

He refuses to lay down, insisting he isn't tired, so I go heat him up some leftover dinner as quietly as possible. I also grab two aspirin and a large cup of water, though I doubt this will do him much good now.

When I enter the lounge I close the door softly behind me, and my dad is sitting on the couch, staring at the wall with a scarily blank look on his face.

"Dad?" I whisper

He lets out a long breath before he says, "You're a good kid, Hadlee. You know that, right?"

I set down the veggie sub and tomato soup before turning to him. "Yes," I say softly, hesitantly.

"Good. Because you are. A good kid, I mean." he says, looking at me. "It's been over seven months," he says finally, looking at the wall again. His words are still slurred but they take on an air of longing.

I feel the air whoosh from my body and I freeze, waiting for him to go on. My parents never really talk about Colton's passing. Maybe in his drunken state, my Dad feels grief his hardest. Maybe we could talk about him together. Colton always admired my dad.

"Yes. 221 days." I say as I sit down next to him on the couch.

He glances at me. "You count the days? That's kind of morbid."

I just shrug.

He smiles, suddenly, shaking his head. "That's fucked up."

Neither of us say anything. He eventually picks up his sandwich and starts eating, which makes me feel a little better. I get him a blanket and tell him where I put the aspirin before I go back to my room, but he doesn't respond.

I didn't sleep that night.