18 Chapter 18

The noises of Dad eating dinner reached me through the thin walls. The scrape of a spoon in the bowl. A loud crunch or the Fritos chips Dad liked to add to chili. The glass clinking on the Formica countertop.

Then the inevitable happened. He knocked on my door.

My whole adult life—and a few years of my adolescence—I’d been fearing this.

As much as I tried to deceive myself, there was no coming back from this now. I had to tell him. If not, he’d figure it out himself, and he deserved better from me.

I reluctantly opened the door. Dad entered and I kept my chin low, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“Not really. But maybe I owe you an explanation.”

He sat down on the edge of my bed. I still couldn’t meet his gaze. I couldn’t even bend my knees to sit beside him.

“Explanation?” he asked, softly. The tone he used was meant to soothe, like the way a hunter whispers gently to a dying animal. “You don’t owe me anything, kid.”