Lucidity

This Side of Paradise

 I'm waiting.

The dining table is set with two plates laden with baked rigatoni that I spent an hour laboring over. A vase of roses serves as a centerpiece with an envelope tucked between their petals. The gift I've created from scratch is hidden away, ready to be revealed at the perfect moment. I'm just missing one thing.

I guess my father couldn't be bothered to show up for Father's Day.

My eyes flicker between the door and the clock, physically feeling every second tick by. I promised myself that if he arrives over an hour late, I need to move on. Unfortunately, he was scheduled to work this weekend, and it's not unusual for him to work overtime or go out for drinks with his friends afterward. He tends to forget when he has other priorities to attend to, occasionally including his daughter. I chastise myself for failing to remind him that Father's Day is this weekend. I didn't want to ruin his surprise, but at this point, there might be no one to surprise.

I have waited for fifty-nine minutes and thirteen seconds. I already sent him a text to check when he's coming home, but he never saw it. I reassure myself I did everything right. Knowing me, if I allow myself to sit and stare at the door any longer, I'll start to spiral. So in twenty-four seconds– now twenty-three– I will move on with my evening.

The minute hand lands on twelve and continues on its journey. I sigh and stand up off the couch, determined to make something of the rest of my night. I may have wasted so many hours on the dinner, the gift, and the waiting, but I will not waste any more time on someone who can't make time for me. If only to prove my worth to myself, I will find something better to do instead of spiraling into anxiety.

Then I realize I have nothing better to do.

And honestly, this moment is worthy of an anxiety spiral, isn't it? After all, I've spiraled over things far more insignificant than this.

I chide myself for considering it. Determined to occupy myself, I head toward my room, then think the better of it and check the kitchen for something to do, then return to the couch. Soon, I find myself pacing in circles, spiraling in a more literal way.

I check my phone for answers, and before I know what I'm doing, I search for Leo's contact. I tap the tiny telephone icon and hold the screen up to my face, listening to it ring.

The ringing stops quickly, replaced by the sound of Leo's voice. "Cass?" He sounds confused and maybe a little concerned. We've never called before, and I usually avoid initiating conversations over text.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I didn't prepare for this interaction. Impulsiveness is uncharacteristic for me, to say the least, and it feels uncomfortably unfamiliar. "Hey," I greet him blandly, unable to find anything else to say.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." I shrug, keeping my eyes glued to the popcorn ceiling. "Just wanted to say hi."

I'm met with a lengthy pause, which is rare for Leo. I've learned that silence makes him uncomfortable and he feels responsible for continuing a conversation. But now, he hesitates.

I wonder if I'm imagining the hint of a smile in his voice. "Do you want me to come over?" he prompts, suspecting I'm too shy to ask.

I pause at the unexpected offer, then realize yes, I do want him to come over. I need some company right now, and Leo is the best company I could ask for. So I continue to follow my impulses. "My plans got canceled, and I made way too much food," I use as an excuse. It's technically true. "I thought maybe you could pick some up. You know, so it doesn't go bad."

The smile in his voice is much more obvious now. "Oh, that's a good idea," he agrees. "But I would hate for it to spill in my car. And I hardly have any room in my fridge."