28. Optimist

ON THE TWENTY-THIRD of April, twenty days after leaving SeeD and exactly four months before my twenties are due to end, I head down to Monterosa Vinyl. I figure if I'm going to wander, I might as well do it in places that I like. Casey looks up briefly from his novel as I walk in, greeting me with his usual curt nod. I give a quick wave in response before heading toward the back.

I'm in search of nothing in particular. It's funny how everything feels like a big drift lately. I go from hip-hop to jazz to pop to soundtracks to metal and even over to electronic, flicking through known entities and strangers alike, judging cover designs. The snarled metal band logos I find amusing, all impractical and illegible. Electronic albums look so minimalist by comparison (although I'm still not ready to dive into the genre again just yet).

Eventually, I find myself back in my comfort zone alongside old familiar friends. Jar of Flies. Heroes. Nevermind. I guess I still am predictable in a lot of ways. It just feels easier, here. In my current state—unemployed, directionless—it's been hard to make decisions, even if they're trivial, and new music, as much as I love it, can sometimes become another one of those choices that I have a difficult time facing up to.

I wish I could go back and hear my favourite albums for the first time all over again. See, first listens can be transcendent. When you connect with the right artist, who hits the all right chords, and sings all the right words, all at the exact right moment in your life—it's a lot like falling in love. There's goosebumps, this big dopamine rush, the longing for more, that aching hope that it'll never end.

Casey must sense my hesitation. As I'm looking through crates of albums I already own, he startles me from behind. I spin around, almost a little too SeeD-like in my reaction, which causes him to put his hand up and take a step back.

"Whoa!" he says. "Easy, man."

"Sorry," I say. "Old habit."

"It's cool," he says as he hands me a record. "Thought you might like this one."

There's no artist name on the front, no title. It's just a striped cover, depicting what looks like flower fields. It's…very on the nose. For a second, I feel a bit homesick. But I can get past that if it sounds good, and Casey tends to know what I like.

"Got it in the other day." He smirks. "Been holding it for when you came 'round."

"Thanks," I say.

"No prob."

I follow him up to the till to pay. As he's bagging the record up, I notice that the "for sale" sign is still sitting in the corner of the window. At the risk of opening up a can of worms, I ask him about it. "Are you actually trying to get rid of this place?"

Casey looks back up at me for a moment, eyes like plates, and runs a hand through his lank hair. It's only him and me here, but still, his voice goes quiet. "Either that, or I'm closin'."

Close? What does he mean close? The news is about as great as a broken bone. Actually, I think I would much rather break a limb. I know it's dumb to say, because at the end of the day, it's just business and life and whatever, but fuck. It almost feels like this place is abandoning me, just like so many other things before it.

"...Why?"

"It's not like I want to give it up, honestly," he says. "But you know, my folks back in Timber…they need me. My dad's not doing all that well, and my mom can't take care of everything on her own."

"I'm sorry, man," I say.

"Thanks. That's just life sometimes." He shrugs. "A square kick in the balls."

I manage a humourless laugh.

"But," he starts, a hopeful look crossing his face, "it just makes you appreciate the good parts more. The people you care about, make sure you spend time with 'em." He hands the bag with my record over to me. "Even if they have shitty taste in music."

"Good advice," I say. "I'll try my best to follow it."

"Good," he says. "Thanks for always comin' in, Squall."

"Anytime."

—

THE ALBUM IS called Little Hell. I put it on the record player after dinner on a lazy night with Harper. The acoustic and steel guitars start soft and slow, but it doesn't take long before I realize I've set myself off on a rollercoaster. As I sit on my couch, watching Harper play with her wooden toy trains on the carpet, I feel myself getting pulled into a world that sounds and feels a lot like my own.

While there is no shortage of songs that resonate throughout the album—songs about love, about failure, about hope—it's the third one turns me into a fucking wreck. I have to take several deep breaths to keep my outward composure.

The track itself is backed by a minimal arrangement. It's that simplicity that gives rise to wrenching lyrics about a man who struggles with things he's left undone, while his optimist father chooses to keep looking on the bright side. All the while, the man wonders if he takes after his mother, a notion that ultimately becomes the song's refrain.

Inevitably, it gets me thinking about my own mother. I wish I had more than stories to go by. Everyone's told me that I'm a lot like her: no nonsense, a bit hardened, easily frustrated, at times pessimistic. But she was so much more than that. She was strong. She chose to care for Ellone after her biological parents were murdered. And when Laguna arrived, she not only took him in; she allowed herself to be vulnerable enough to fall in love.

Do I have her better traits inside of me too? I want to believe so, but sometimes it's tough. My life has followed a different roadmap than hers. There have been times when I've gone searching for strength and found nothing but a deep, empty well. Love has always been hard; I can never allow myself to feel it without also worrying about the potential for despair.

Laguna, on the other hand, has been on this same road nearly his entire life, and yet, he's still able to see silver linings all around him. I used to think he was a sucker, setting himself up for disappointment so easily. Even now, I have a difficult time understanding exactly how he does it. To see the good in so many things, despite having been wronged so many times, despite loss after unfathomable loss—it seems almost impossible. God, do I envy him though. He's gone fifty-seven years and he's still not jaded.

(I can only hope that maybe one day, some of that optimism will rub off on me. Harper deserves better than a defeatist dad.)

When she looks up at me, I start to worry. I'm not sure I've maintained my poker face. In fact, I'm fairly certain I haven't. She moves up from her spot on the floor to sit next to me on the couch, her small legs sprawling across my lap.

"Hey, Harps." I kiss her forehead. There are no more stitches from her fall, only a small white scar not unlike my own.

"Hey, Dad." She's got one of her train cars in one hand, which she rolls up and down my chest. Her other arm is still wrapped in a cast, its purple shell almost completely covered in the wobbly-written well wishes of her daycare classmates. It's good to see that she's got a lot of friends. I hope she never has to feel the way I did when I was four, isolated, alone.

"Are you done playing?" I ask, mindlessly combing her hair from her face.

"I'm tired," she says. She lets her head drop into the crook of my neck.

"It's okay. Me too."

I pull her closer. Even though I've been far from a perfect father, I hope that she'll one day look back on these memories of me with a sense of fondness. I've been trying so hard to make up for lost time, to be more than some empty page in her story, more than some unknown figure she's only heard rumours about.

That's got to be worth something, right?

—

I ASK LAGUNA to meet me at The Oxford to watch some indie band from Dollet. The scene is about as good as you could ask for on a Sunday evening: lively (without being obnoxiously busy), cheap drinks, decent music.

I'm most of the way through my first beer by the time he arrives. It's still kind of surreal in a sense, watching him wade through the patrons as he makes his way to my table. He's maintained such a purposefully low profile since the days of his presidency that no one even bats an eye at him.

"Usually I'm the one doing the inviting," he says as he sits down.

It's an awkward thing to lead with, but he's right. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've been the one to ask him to hang out. Even now, I could've just as easily gone to Quistis' and been happy to call it a night. But between that song off Little Hell, Casey's advice about family, and my recent conversation with Seifer, I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about him and Raine, and well, I wanted to see him. I know it might seem strange. It's still a foreign feeling to me, too, given our history. Things have changed a lot, though, especially over the past six months, and I'd like to think it's mostly been for the better.

"Am I not allowed?" I ask.

"Just surprised you wanna visit, is all," he says.

I get that he's being honest. But that doesn't negate how much it sucks, knowing how I've set this arm's length precedent. I guess it's my own fault. I've been nothing but cold to the man for most of the time that I've known him. I feel my shoulders slump a little as I drain the last sip from the bottom of my pint glass.

Laguna must pick up on my disappointment, because he nudges me in the arm and offers a small grin. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'm glad."

"Okay."

He orders us a round of beers then. Instead of trying to fumble through some awkward conversation about why I invited him out, we decide to settle in and watch the band play for awhile. Their music is a bit unpolished; the bassist's lines are fairly rudimentary, and the singer's voice cracks more than once. But it's enjoyable all the same, and the dancefloor is never empty.

Every once in awhile, I catch myself watching Laguna instead of the band. I don't mean to stare, but I can't help it. There's just something about this moment that feels different, like a loop has closed. I can still picture him, a few years younger than I am now, admiring Julia as she played piano at the Galbadia Hotel while he enjoyed a beer with his friends. I'd been so quick to judge, calling him sad, pitiful, a moron. I didn't know him, then.

In a way, Laguna was no different than me: young, lost. But he was an optimist at heart, always trying to enjoy life as best he could despite the circumstances he found himself in. The decades that followed were largely relentless. He faced challenges that would break a weaker man. Through all of it, though, he's held tight to the things that make him happy. Music, writing, family. Seeing him here now, over thirty years on, still enjoying some small-time band over beers makes me happy, too.

"They're pretty good," Laguna says between songs. "Fun, at least."

"Yeah," I agree.

There's something sullen in the smile he's wearing. His next words hit hard. "It feels wrong that this is the first time we've watched a band together, y'know?"

First time. God. The thought hadn't occurred to me before, but now that it's there, it feels like a raw wound. I wonder what else we've missed out on in my twenty-nine years on this earth. Plenty, I'm sure. The more I think about it, the higher that distinctly acidic feeling of guilt creeps up into my throat. I drain my glass in hopes of washing it back down.

"I'm sorry," I say dumbly.

"Don't be." He finishes his pint and signals to the server for two more. "We're here now."

I try to pull myself together, but inside, I'm still reeling. It'd be easy to just blame this all on him for not being there when I was growing up. But I've had over a decade to play a hand in righting our relationship, and for most of that time, I did nothing. Fucking nothing. I pick up my glass, hoping to find one more drop of beer; emptiness stares back at me.

It's almost ironic how much time slows down then, the two of us sitting quiet while the band plays on. My father's eyes look glassy, distant. I'm sure mine look largely the same. I really wish I could just put myself back into the moment, but I can't. I'm too busy wrestling with the weight of time lost, too busy trying to shove this guilt aside.

I excuse myself for a smoke. Laguna nods as I make a hasty push for the exit. The chill outside comes as a shock, but it's exactly what I need—a splash of cold water to the face, a hit of reality. I light up my cigarette and look up to the night sky. The glow of the city blots out the stars; only a few shine through, like blurred memories of a mostly forgotten dream.

A few long, slow inhales help to ground me. I needed this. There was no way I was going to be able to focus otherwise. And yes, I know, it's just me, leaning into yet another vice, but I like to think I've come a long way from the days I used to just escape into pills or powders or whatever else. I draw my smoke down until it's little more than a stub between my fingers. Then it's the butt getting crushed into the sidewalk, one more deep breath of cold air, one more glance up at the orphan stars. I tell myself I can do this, though I'm not sure I believe it.

I return to our table just in time to see our server dropping off our beers. It feels like a mercy. Laguna doesn't hesitate to slug back a quarter of his pint in one go. Clearly, he's feeling just as anxious as I am. I take my seat next to him once more and offer up my glass. He clinks his against the rim, another quarter pint goes down.

It's kind of funny to see, actually—I'd always assumed he was lightweight, based on all the war stories I'd heard from Kiros and Ward. It looks like I'm about to find out first-hand how true that is.

Not that I should talk. I feel a bit of a buzz coming on, myself, as I make quick work of my third beer of the night. Honestly, I wasn't planning on drinking all that much; it is a Sunday, after all. But I guess it doesn't really matter. It's not like I have a job to wake up to. As for Laguna, every day might as well be a weekend. Other than writing the occasional opinion column, he's practically retired.

After a couple more songs, the band wraps up their set and heads off on a break. The dancefloor clears, the bars get busy. Laguna turns his full attention back onto me. I try not to shrink away.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I dig up a wan smile. "Yeah."

"Good," he says. "I hope I didn't upset you."

I shake my head. "It's not you. I'm just…mad at myself."

"Why?"

"For being selfish." I shrug. "...I've wasted a lot of years."

"It happens," he says.

It happens? Really? It's such a grand oversimplification. And it's plain wrong. Spirals like mine, they don't just happen, not on their own. I made my mistakes. Every single one. I knew what I was doing was fucked up. Did he not see the intent behind all that distance I created? I didn't want to be held accountable, I had to hold him at bay. "It was easier to run."

"I know." Laguna leans his elbows onto the table. He takes a long inhale as he considers his next words. I can tell he's searching for something he's buried deep, the way he's almost wincing. The memory that comes to surface turns his grey-green eyes dark, and when he speaks, his voice rasps, like he's found himself suddenly on edge. "I did the same thing."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Around the end of high school," he continues, his gaze settling somewhere far away, "I wasn't exactly in a good place. Mostly because of my old man."

"Henri." His name feels strange to say. He's part of my history, and yet, I've only ever seen him in photographs, only heard of him in complicated stories of fatherly love and domestic abuse.

Laguna takes another sip off his beer. "I just wanted to escape from him, but I didn't want to leave my mom behind. So I started running with the wrong crowd, partying. You know how that goes."

I know. Fuck, do I know.

"Out late, home in the wee hours of the morning. Hammered, high, both, it didn't really matter." Laguna's mouth turns downward. His chin drops to his chest. "Sometimes, he'd still be up, waiting for me."

To hear that Laguna had his own spiral is, in a way, shocking, but not surprising. It just goes to show how deep our parallels truly run. "I'm sorry," I say. "You and Annette… You didn't deserve that."

"I still feel guilty, though," he says. "I didn't get a chance to try and make it right. Bastard died before I could figure it out."

I doubt Laguna could have done anything to make it right. Turning a tide like that seems, well, optimistic at best. Naïve might be a better way to describe it. I get it, though. He was just a kid back then, still hopeful at heart. All he knew was that he wanted his dad to be fixed. He didn't want to believe that Henri could truly be a lost cause.

It's cold to say, but Henri's death, sudden as it was, was probably a good thing. It happened early enough that it didn't destroy my father's faith in silver linings. And it paved the path for my father to become a better man, far better than Henri could have ever been. He was able to take that trauma and turn it into passion—to build connections, to help others, to lead with courage, to inspire.

Laguna gives his head a quick shake, sits upright. The darkness fades from his eyes as his face settles back into a smile, albeit a sad one. "Point is, everyone's got a past," he says. "Choosing to break that cycle and live for now, that's what matters."

I nod. There's this sense of levity that bridges the divide between us then, a mutual understanding of circumstance and consequence, but before either one of us can say another word, the band is getting back on stage. It's okay; I don't need him to tell me anything more. I can see how it pains him just to think about it even all these years later, much the same way I still feel aftershocks of anxiety from my own spiral.

We're back to watching the show the moment the music starts up again, the band hyping up the crowd, the dancefloor quickly becoming packed. I pick out different people to watch, a leftover habit from SeeD—the punks jumping at the front, an older couple swing dancing off to the side, groups of girls in mini skirts and guys nearby, wondering if they have a chance.

Our empty pints get replaced with full ones. I steal another quick glance at my father as he thanks the server for the exchange. He's back to his usual resting grin, his fingers lightly tapping the table along to the beat, shoulders more relaxed. His face is about a half-shade redder from the buzz he's entertaining. I'm sure I'm in a similar state myself, not that I mind much. The guilt that had risen up earlier in the night has mostly settled back down, at least for now. Actually, I'm quite enjoying myself. The dancers. The music. The time I'm spending with him. It's like the further I get from Garden, the more I'm able to see the world for what it is. It's not just this endlessly draining, complex thing. It's also people, living through moments together, just like this.

When the band starts playing a cover of Let It Be, there's a shift in the atmosphere. McCartney's melody spills across the room, leaving my skin to prickle, rising into goosebumps. Then come the lyrics about his long-passed mother, who visited him once in a dream. I've heard it all a hundred times before, but this time feels so much different, so much more in every way. Flowers in Winhill, startling white, no one grew them like Raine. Binders full of hand-written recipes, the smell of spices, everyone at home. It all hits hard, right in the centre of my chest. Each breath feels like the rising tide of a mother's love I've only ever felt second-hand, each exhale a reverence for the inevitable grief that follows.

What would she think, now? I get a hint when I catch Laguna looking over at me for once, his broad smile lifting into his crow's feet. He reaches across, pulls me into a half-hug. I return the gesture easily, willingly, even, like if I don't grab hold now, I might fall away. The feeling of him swaying slightly back and forth to the cadence of the music puts me at ease. I'm safe, secure. I allow myself to stay there for a moment, singing along quietly to his rhythm, happy to be drowned out by amplifiers and the noise of the crowd.

Laguna doesn't let his voice get buried. He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze as he lands the words I've only heard him say once before.

"Love you, Squall."

It's still so strange to hear, and part of me worries that maybe I don't deserve it. But maybe that's the pessimist in me. Thankfully, Laguna's not wired that way. Even when our relationship couldn't be any more sour, he's found the silver lining. He had to. He couldn't just stay a stranger to me, some figment I knew only in a dream. He had to break the cycle, to become the man that Henri couldn't be to him. There was far too much on the line to be anything less than persistent.

My own feelings of abandonment, the loneliness of my orphan upbringing, while still lingering, start to wilt just a little bit more. And maybe it's the beers making things easy, but the words I've kept myself from saying all this time just seem to fall out.

"Love you, too, Dad."

—

LAGUNA'S ADVICE IS still ringing in my head days later. It's a lot like what Rinoa had told me so many times throughout our relationship, that today, the time I have now, is what's most important. I wish I had listened to her back then. Between dwelling on the past and panicking about the future, I haven't exactly given myself much grace.

Still, I feel like I've come away with some added resiliency in the face of all the questions that've been rattling around in my world. That's not to say that my problems have somehow all magically gone away. I'm still wandering, still trying to figure things out. I still don't have all the answers I need. But the thought of living with uncertainty, of being stuck on the rope in a pendulous state, doesn't feel near as daunting anymore. It feels more like a detour, a long road, something I can ultimately course correct.

Quistis notices, too. Not that it's entirely surprising—she's always prided herself on being able to read me better than anyone else. As we take an evening walk along Commercial, shopping store windows, strolling by pot dispensaries and coffee shops, I spot her looking at me, her grin wry, upturned, like she's gotten hold of some secret I've been trying to keep hidden away.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing!" she says. She knows I've caught her in a lie. She tries to hide it, but she's betrayed by the late sunlight spilling across her Dolletian face.

"Bullshit."

She laughs. "Really. It's not a big deal. It's just nice to see you like this. That's all."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

She gestures up and down at me. "This. You know. Happy."

I shrug. "I guess I don't have much to be upset about right now."

"Not stressed about the job hunt anymore?"

The job hunt. Truth be told, I haven't been doing much in the way of hunting. People, priorities, distractions, decision paralysis—they've all come into play at some point, a brick wall between me and any meaningful movement. Is it a lame excuse? Sure. I know full well that I should be putting my name out there, that I should be trying to get some sort of traction. Savings only last so long. Bills keep coming. Time's still ticking away.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. And that's the reality—I really don't know. I keep waffling between two disparate states: either I'm panicked about my prospects, or I'm content to wander. Tonight, I'm in the latter camp. Tomorrow might be different. (But I'm trying not to think about tomorrow.)

We keep walking, past hole-in-the-wall restaurants, past the poetry slam café. I tell Quistis about the night my sister dragged me there, how I tried my best to grin and bear the onslaught of pretentious sonnets and the staggering scent of patchouli and body odour. Her head shakes as I recount the poems about flowers masquerading as sex organs, and she laughs this big, full-body laugh, her smile toothy and wide, as I tell her about the bongo that fell over and knocked the mic off the stage.

"I'll bring you along the next time she invites me out," I say.

"You absolutely will not." Quistis swats playfully at my arm. "Just for that, I'm going to drop your resumé off there."

I shrug. "I'll tell Ellone you want to go to their next reading workshop."

"I'll sign you up for open mic."

"Okay, okay." I feign surrender. "You win."

She smirks, winks. I laugh. It's in these small moments with her that I feel most myself. And I'm beginning to wonder if maybe that's not as bad a person as I once thought. Everyone has flaws, everyone fucks up. Everyone gets lost. Hell, even my own father, the optimist, had his fair share of low points. I'm learning not to measure by lows, but rather, by rebounds.

Quistis threads her fingers through mine as we continue up the block. Her palm is cool against mine, our arms swaying with the easy pace of our steps. I catch reflections of us in the windows as we pass by. It doesn't feel all that long ago that we were down here with Harper and I was staring at that same reflection, wondering what it would be like to be with her this way. A couple.

When Rinoa left, I had lost something I could never get back. That bond between sorceress and knight, that otherworldly connection. It had all evaporated as I fell further down the spiral. I tried to play pretend with Zurie, but our relationship was no more than a facsimile at best. With Quistis, it's different. I wasn't chasing some replacement for all that I had lost. I was only ever looking for her.

"Are you happy?" I ask.

She stops mid-step. Her eyes look into mine, no longer opaque. I can see all of her, open, honest. Her mouth perks up into a small smile. "Yeah," she says. "I'm happy."

"Good." I give her a quick kiss.

We keep walking for a few more blocks, until eventually, we come upon Monterosa Vinyl. It's shuttered for the night, the lights all off. "You're Welcome, We're Closed" hangs on the door. I peer through the front window, looking at the records Casey has in the display: Vitalogy, Into the Gap, Illmatic. A few new pop albums. The "for sale" sign sits neatly in the corner still, its bright orange letters calling out, begging for my attention.

For a moment, I toy with the idea of what it might be like to actually just buy the goddamned place. It's a pipe dream with practically zero thought behind it, but it's fun to make believe. What kind of records would I bring in? What would I do differently? How would I grow it into something sustainable long-term?

The impulse that stirs inside me then is overwhelming. What if? No. No, no, no. It's just some dumb fantasy, an off-the-cuff idea at best. I'm far better off finding something steady, something with actual security. And besides, what do I know about running a store, of all things? Fuck all, that's what.

Still, despite all my internal protestation, the impulse only grows, bursting like a weed through concrete. It doesn't matter how hard I try to kill it away; its roots have already burrowed deep into the soil, too far down for better judgement to rip up.

Quistis gives me a small tap on the shoulder. It dawns on me how quiet I've been, staring intently at Casey's sign for a solid minute without so much as a word.

"Sorry," I say.

"It's alright." She smiles. "See something you want?"

"Yeah." I nod slightly. "You could say that."