🏆Featured on TeenFiction | Head Over Heels
To Leroy 'Lee' Hiew, home's never felt like home. He has a huge mansion, a big car, and more money than he could ever spend. And yet, the idea of home always seems to elude him.
Armed with his dog, Socks...
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Lee's hand shakes around his phone. The action seems so frighteningly mundane, so desperately everyday, as if his whole world hasn't just been flipped on its head and ripped apart. Trembling fingers, as if they're trying to cling on to normalcy, as if they're trying to grasp the words pouring out of his father's mouth, as if they're trying to erase all the years of hoping and praying and losing and fuck, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts---
"When did you decide you were going to invite her over?" His words comes out soft, shattered, frayed at the edges. He's trying---so hard---to push away all the emotions bubbling in his throat, all the tears he hasn't been able to cry in years, all the hurt and pain and disappointment...but it's not working. It's not working, and Lee's feelings are a tap he can't turn off, and they're leaking over his face and pooling at his feet and bleeding into his voice.
It's a strange sensation to find yourself drowning again after filling your lungs with air, but Lee feels it. He feels the water crashing over his head and sucking all the oxygen from his lungs. He feels each wave like a hurricane as it suplexes him deeper beneath the surface every time. He feels the current slipping between his fingers, an endless riptide he can't clasp, and it sweeps him away, down, down, down.
"I thought it would help if you met her in person, and---" his father continues, and frustration builds up in Lee's chest. You're not listening to me. You're not listening to me. You're not listening to me. Eighteen years, and you've never listened to me.
"I didn't ask what you were thinking," Lee cuts in, doing his best to keep his voice stable. It burns, like a knife, searing right through his heart. "I asked when you thought of this."
His father is silent for a minute. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he admits, "After our conversation last week."
Anger is an art. Lee feels every splatter of paint against his chest, red as blood, brushes stroking his ribs and tinting them bright vermillion. The stars crumble around his ears, shattering like glass, crashing through the perfect little universe Lee's fabricated for himself. His blood boils, the urge to throw his phone into the wall reverberating through his veins. Unlike it had been with Danny, the rage is no longer dull, no longer throbs and burns. It's sharp, flickering against each organ and puncturing holes through his vitals. It scorches every part of him and chars it black.
"Then why are you only telling me now?" Lee questions bitterly, letting a fragment of his fury seep into his voice, bleeding over the messy kitchen floor until he's sure his father can hear it too. "So you could have an excuse to bring your little girl toy over and I wouldn't have time to protest?"
"Leroy, that's not nice."
"Yeah, well, you haven't been very nice to me, so I don't see why I have to be nice to you."
"Leroy, if you're not okay with her coming over, it's alright. I can change it to another day if you're not ready."
"No, it's fine." Lee lets out a chuckle that sears his tongue like acid, bitter and sour at the same time. It scrapes his skin off and sets fire to his lips. "It doesn't matter what I want. You wouldn't listen to me anyway, right?"
