Blackbird

Tate |Chapter 7

THIS FELT LIKE A PRECURSOR TO HEARTBREAK. After leaving, Alex blocked all incoming calls and ignored texts sent via Flock. Navy curtains billowed as a breeze blew in. I swung a pillow over my head, eclipsing the dawn rays. I shifted on the thin mattress—the poor excuse for a blanket tangled around my feet.

From the open window, people had already begun their slogs to work, revving engines and slamming car doors; the sounds punctuated with the occasional neighbor walking barking dogs. Both Alex and my father should hate the sight of me. None of this would have happened if I had cleaned up my mess. Instead, Rafael became caught in the crosshairs meant for me.

The smell of grilled bacon greeted me halfway down the stairs, which was strange, as Dad never cooked. Was this his super-passive aggression working overtime? Was I being lulled into one of those chats where I came into the conversation as the bad guy and left the same way? But I deserved it if I did. We would never be the same when Dad eventually discovered that he'd severed a friendship and incurred a lawsuit because of me.

"How are you feeling?" he said without looking away from the stove.

"Thought you didn't cook."

He turned, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You haven't eaten it yet."

"Why are you cooking?" I gnawed on my thumbnail, deciding whether to come clean or skip the conference— it would make things worse. Would he seek revenge on Rafael for keeping my secrets close to his heart?

He placed the spatula down. I'd expected a cold shoulder, but the ominous calm was worse. His eyes took in everything about me, perhaps for the first time in a year.

"It's the conference today. You'll need to eat first." His words were measured with neutrality, but standing his ground, I could see the conflicting emotions dancing like sparks in his eyes, reminding me, as they often did, of something close to a home.

There was a prickling under my skin, deep in my chest because shame's the color of a bruise, the shade after the surface wound has mended, but it still lingers—that gut-tight feeling when you know you've done something you shouldn't have.

"I wanted to talk to you about something you said the other day," he said.

My heart dropped for the second time in as many minutes. Last night, I'd said a lot. Did he already know about Rafael? If he did, my heart couldn't take it today. One crushing blow at a time, please. I'd not stopped crying, and whatever he said could turn the faucet to a gush again.

"I did listen. I know I don't always. I worry that we'll argue, and one day one of us..."

"...won't come back as she did." It wasn't rocket science. I still finished the sentence for him. That's a fear I lived with every time anyone I knew left the house. We don't pick our parents, and I wouldn't have chosen him, but it's not often people see a fumbling side to Dean Parker because of his usual gilded veneer. This was a rarity.

After an audible gulp, he said, "Can we talk more about what's going on with you?"

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. "There's nothing going on with me. Everything is fine." It was a lie, of course. Everything was far from fine. Rafael had been on my mind constantly, and the guilt about Alex was eating away at me.

He didn't know. At least, that's the perception his overall tone gave me. The sudden concern caught me off guard, and a warmth spread throughout my chest. Until recently, the kind of warmth I only felt around Alex. That made what I needed to do so much more complicated. I had to choose between an absent father and an invisible one.

"Later? I still need to shower and find a suit."

"Are you sure," he asked.

"Positive," I said.

"You know I miss her too," he added. "I just thought you were handling it better than I was."

Dad held my gaze for a long minute, neither saying anything nor making a move to eat his breakfast, never breaking the connection. I knew my dad was still grieving the loss of Nadine, and I wanted to be there for him, but I couldn't help feeling angry at the unfairness of it all. Why did she have to die so young? Why did we have to suffer through this pain?

But as I looked into my dad's eyes, I saw the same sadness that I was feeling reflected back at me. We were both hurting. I was the first to look away as my cell rang. Flock's name blinkered on the screen.

Flock: I saw Derek this morning—he looks like a car crash. What did you do to him?

Great. When the gossip wheel got hold of this, I'd only be the guy who messed up Derek Benitez's face. Truth be told, I'd never once thrown a punch that hadn't been goaded out of me. Like many times lately, I thought about how I would explain the reasoning to people with more courage than I currently felt.

I imagined Alex sitting at the same table I had yesterday, navigating a different conversation with his father. The hurt on his face the night before slammed into my heart like a thousand tiny needles. It didn't matter that I hadn't known because I should have figured it out myself.

The man had lost his job and reputation, and I'd been none the wiser. My inability to stay away from Alex for my selfish redemption had caused him further pain. Not only did I not stop there, but I beat Derek within an inch of his life because he made a stupid joke, putting me in a position where the rumors about me had now come true.

Not sustainable.

I need to be better for all of them.

Dad said something, but it seemed like a mile away. My head jerked up. "What did you say? Sorry, I wasn't listening."

He smiled, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

For all the time I'd spent complaining that he never talked to me, here I was, tuning him out without a second thought. It wasn't intentional, but it still made me feel like a terrible son.

Winning often requires sacrifice. But for what I was about to do, it didn't feel like winning for one of us.