no-one saw me (not in the way you did)

Chapter 6

"Hey, son. Where've you been?"

Stan freezes. His guard is fully up. Randy's hair is washed, combed over, and his features aren't quite so sunken in. There aren't any cans littering the carpet. He's actually dressed. Stan edges towards the stairs, not quite ready to go up, but prepared in case he needs to.

It's unusual. It's not the Randy he's grown to be hauntingly familiar with. Stan knows he can't be too careful, doesn't know how much he might have had to drink. How long it is until his next spree, and how long it may be until flying fists and slurred remarks.

"Just... to take Sparky out. Where's Mom?" Stan cranes his neck, but there are no lights on in the kitchen, and there are no footsteps upstairs.

It's just him, Sparky, and his shockingly sober father.

"She got asked to stay late at work. I'll take you to practice, tonight."

Stan feels his heart drop for the second time that day. Whether that's even a possible phenomenon, he doesn't know.

"Oh, it's fine. I'll get there some other way." Stan's voice falls quiet. He finds himself startled as Randy pushes himself off the couch and moves toward him, edging towards the stairs. He hates himself for cowering.

"Don't be stupid. Besides, we haven't had any father-son bonding, recently."

Stan can't remember the last time he talked or even did something with Randy in a remotely positive setting. It seems like lifetimes ago that he was being hoisted onto his shoulders to watch their shitty soapbox car race down a hill. Now it's all just accusing fingers and volatile words.

"Okay." Stan sighs defeatedly as Randy beams. He can't bear to make eye contact with him. His gaze drops to the ratty carpet as he goes to collect his skate bag and stick from beside the door, Randy following behind.

While Stan moves from the hall to the car, his eyes are constantly over his shoulder. Waiting, anticipating Randy's shift in mood.

Stan knows nothing good comes from this. He's almost tempted to keep his stick in hand for the journey. A skate would be too risky. He's pretty sure a murder charge would end his career, crossed out with the red of his father's blood. Even a hockey stick would be too inconspicuous.

He settles for putting them both in the backseat, positioning his stick so it's within arm's reach in a worst-case scenario.

The journey so far is tense. Stan is turned fully towards the window, mouth firmly shut, not giving his father any attention. Randy eventually permeates the silence with awkward, tentative words.

"Heard you made Captain, kid." Stan scoffs. He falls back in his seat, glowering. He's already irritated, in just one spoken statement. How is he meant to cope with the next twenty minutes?

"Yeah, weeks ago." he snaps, "Why are you so interested all of a sudden? Quitting football and joining the team was like, your breaking point. I'm surprised you didn't fucking jump, the way you wouldn't shut up about it." Stan mumbles the last part. His throat begins to dry up as Randy's knuckles tighten around the wheel.

"Okay, maybe I've been a bit... absent." Stan rolls his eyes, "But you can't blame me. You'll understand what adults have to deal with one day, Stan. Everything I do, it's for you, this family. You know that, at least?"

Stan can't bear to listen to this drivel any longer.

"Sure, Dad. I believe you." The sarcasm is laid on thick.

"It's so hard, with your mother and the way she is, and with you and Shelley growing up. You understand what your old Dad has to go through, right?"

"With how Mom is? Jesus fucking Christ..." A hand comes up to pinch his nose. Stan is halfway tempted to open the car door and bail.