20. Single
JUST OVER ONE third of the way through my suspension, and I think I might die. Okay, that's a bit dramatic, but my god, I'm just so. Damn. Bored. Words spin around the table like piss circling a drain, spewed out in some unending dribble of self-important nonsense that I can't really be bothered to follow. Instead, I just fall back into old habits, a nod at the right moments, my near-neutral grin, the occasional "oh really?" slipping out during pauses in speech. At first, I was worried she'd notice my indifference, but halfway through a mediocre steak and two whisky sours, she's shown no signs of slowing down her tirade.
Jenna T., 27, might just be the most vapid woman I have ever met. And I have met a lot of people in my line of work. From the moment we sat down, the only thing she's managed to yammer on about is her ex-boyfriend, Elliot, who is apparently the worst person to ever walk the planet, and who also "does not know what he's missing".
(Not that it makes any difference to my situation, but I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what he's missing, which is precisely why he broke things off with her in the first place.)
Okay, before I get any further, yes. Curiosity got the better of me. After Seifer left my place Tuesday night, it was just me, The Smashing Pumpkins, and my phone. I really did think I was going to delete this stupid app; I had every intention to do just that from the moment I unlocked the damn thing. But something—a sort of preoccupation that I am now currently cursing—held me back.
Maybe it was seeing Seifer head off abruptly to meet up with a girl. Maybe it was a desire to prove to myself that I wasn't attracted to Quistis. Maybe it was the loneliness running laps on my one-track mind. Either way, I found myself adding pictures to my profile—me watching a band at The Commodore Theatre, having a beer on the patio at Laguna's, sitting in the park for Galbadia Day fireworks—and spending an embarrassingly long amount of time on a bio for myself. It was just so awkward. I mean, what was I supposed to write? Should I talk about Garden? Harper? And why does the internet say I'm supposed to disclose my height?
The only thing I did know was that I wasn't about to put up some air-headed idiom like the one Seifer used. Still, it took me almost an hour and a bunch of how-to searches (which I subsequently deleted from my history) just to come up with this spectacularly bland summary: Squall L., 29. Music nerd. Well-travelled. Decent listener. Bad at writing bios.
And what have my efforts gotten me so far? Well, you're looking at it.
I poke aimlessly at my food in a vain attempt to look interested in something, while my glass sits on empty, save for a half-melted ice cube coated in egg froth. I don't even know how long she's been going on for at this point, but I guess it's partially my fault; I probably shouldn't have written that "decent listener" part.
As her ramble continues, barrelling into Elliot's new girlfriend territory, I wonder if this counts towards trying, or branching out, or whatever the fuck I'm calling it now, because being an audience to all this drama and nonsense feels like the most effort I've put into anything since my suspension started.
Only after the waitress comes to clear our plates does Jenna finally change the subject. "So, tell me more about yourself," she says as she swirls around her white wine. "What do you do for work?"
It takes me a second to compute that she's expecting an actual response. It's the first comment she's directed at me since we ordered drinks almost an hour ago.
On that note, why is it that people always equate who you are with where you work? I never really got that. Maybe there's an unwritten rule out there that says you are what you do, or some stupid bullshit like that. But then does that mean that my career is supposed to define the crux of who I am? Because if that's the case, I'm fucked.
I try to keep my answer brief. I don't really want to get into it. "I work for Garden."
Her eyebrow arches as she finishes off her glass of wine. She leaves a bright pink lipstick stain behind on the glass. "Oh really? What are you, one of the teachers?"
"I work command for the Balamb campus." Suspension aside, of course, but I haven't had nearly enough alcohol to get into that dumpster fire of a subject. "I'm remote, hence the whole living in Deling thing."
"You must make pretty good money, then," she comments.
Whoa, now—that's pretty goddamned forward, isn't it? I make a point of being as vague as possible. "It's alright," I tell her.
"I'm sure it is." She starts twirling at her blonde hair as she leans in, tits pushed together by her forearms and framed by the plunging neckline of her dress. There's a look in her eyes that wasn't there before as she rolls her next words through her lips. "Tell me more."
Oh, so now she's interested in me. At least I know where her priorities lie. I'm trying to remember what I even saw in her profile to begin with. There had to be something that intrigued me beyond the way her ass looked in her photos (and yes, before anyone can judge, I know that makes me just as shallow as she is). But even if it was just her looks that drew me in, physical attraction has to be backed by substance, and Jenna here has none.
As a result, the rest of our date goes mostly like that, with her waffling between thinly veiled questions about my income and not-so-thinly veiled complaints about her ex. I wish I had told her I worked in a drive-thru or something. Or better yet—I wish I would have swiped left on her altogether.
Ending the whole thing is awkward as fuck, too. The waitress comes by and asks if we want to see the dessert menu. I'm quick to say, "Just the bill." After that, I pay, head outside, walk her to her vehicle.
Jenna puts on a pouty smirk like maybe we'll hook up and I'll act as her wallet until she finds a new boy toy to play with. I'm not into it, and when she leans in for a kiss, I respond with a quick hug. That move earns me a look, which is honestly a little hard to believe, considering. Did she really think some cleavage could salvage this diatribe of a date? I mean, I'm lonely, but I'm not a (total) fucking idiot.
"It was nice to meet you," I say. It wasn't, of course, but Matron taught me to have enough manners to lie. "Have a good rest of your night."
"Are you serious?" she calls out after me as I'm getting into my car.
I pause for a moment and offer her an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, but yeah, I am."
Her tone turns sarcastic, and she spits out her response as though it tastes as bitter as it sounds. "Wow, okay. Your loss, then. Enjoy driving home alone in your fucking Honda."
And with those parting words comes the end of my first dating app experience, two and a half hours of my life that I'll never get back, complete with a pissed off woman who really should just be happy that she got a free meal out of the whole damn thing. And no, it's not a Range Rover, but for what it's worth, I like my fucking Honda.
—
IT TAKES UNTIL day fifteen, exactly halfway through my suspension, before I attempt another date. There's this thought in my head telling me that things can only get better, and this time the girl is thankfully not looking to exact some sort of vengeance against an ex, nor is she in search of someone to pay her bills. That's two wins, right out the gate. Even so, it feels like a low bar, and after my, let's call it, experience with Jenna, I'm feeling iffy at best.
Elise K., 31, is new to Deling, moved here from Timber a few months ago. We agree to meet for coffee downtown after she's done working her upper management gig. I know it's casual, more of a catch-up than a date, but I'm okay with it. There's no point in wasting steak dinner money on what might still ultimately end up being a waste of time, right?
On paper, this girl seems good. She's got a stable job, she plays volleyball, and she's got a golden retriever that she likes to take hiking and paddleboarding. A couple preliminary messages back and forth also reveal that she's the oldest of three, that she went to Timber State University, and that she loves vacationing in Balamb. (Also, please note how I did more than assess the ass situation this time. Fool me once, as they say.)
I show up just after 16:00; Elise is already there, all dressed in her work attire, heels and a smart cream suit that compliments her dark skin, sitting in the dead centre of a long, crowded communal table. I'm not wearing anything of the sort. My jeans, my toque, my black denim jacket—they stand out like a sore thumb amidst the Deling business class. I try not to overthink it as I order my coffee and take the spot across from her, careful not to shoulder others occupying the space around me.
"Hey, nice to meet you," I say as I pull the chair closer to the table.
She smiles, nods, curly black hair bobbing with the motion. "Nice to meet you, too."
"How are you?" I ask.
She finishes her sip of coffee before replying with, "I'm good. How about you?"
"I'm good."
Listen, I know I have only been on one prior date like this, but I can already tell this is always going to be my least favourite part. Having to fight through stupid little small talk questions feels awkward enough on its own; having to do it through the lens of a potentially romantic interaction is somehow exponentially worse. I try my best anyways, getting through the basics, like "how was your drive down" and "how was your work day" without suffering too terribly much.
Still, as we carry on, it becomes evident that Elise has two things that make her incompatible with me.
One: she's completely out of my league. We're talking physically, financially, everything. She's the whole fucking package, right from her unblemished skin to her fancy Director of Finance job title. And her life is in near-perfect order, much in a way that mine may never be. She can articulate exactly what she wants—her five-year-plan to climb the corporate ladder (with the eventual goal of becoming CFO), the exact neighbourhood where she's planning to buy a home (Malgo Bay), the number of kids she wants to have (two).
Maybe if I had some of Seifer's confidence, I could compensate for that, at least a bit. But that's just one thing. The other is much harder to solve (read: it's not solvable at all).
Two: she's my complete opposite. And it goes well beyond the fact that I look like some pale haunted thing sitting next to her. Aside from us both living in Deling and both being on this app, Elise and I have absolutely nothing in common. Nada. Zilch. Zero.
Our conversation feels forced at best. And if I'm saying that, then you know it's forced. Every topic just seems to die on the vine. I ask her what bands she likes, she tells me she's not that into music. She asks me if I ever played sports as a kid, I tell her only when I was forced to in PE class. It feels like a job interview, one that I'm failing miserably.
And it's a bit of a shame, too, because I could probably do well to date someone that has her shit together as much as Elise does. Maybe she'd be able to motivate me to get straightened out. I can almost see it: I'd quit smoking, give up weed, drink only on special occasions, pick up jogging, take the dog to the park. No more empty notebooks. No more nights spent wondering what I want out of life.
But that's all too easy, isn't it? Of course it is, and besides, it's not on her or anyone else to fix me. I just need to keep working on it and figure it out for myself. So, after an hour of trying to talk about anything at all, I stand up, thank Elise for the visit, and head out.
—
QUISTIS TEXTS FROM work on a bland Wednesday. At a glance, her message seems relatively innocuous, if not a bit funny—some quip about a kid who was out of his depth and burnt an eyebrow off in paramagic class—but part of me is suspicious. I get this gut feeling that she's using the opportunity to check up on me, making sure I'm not just wasting my time day-drinking or getting high.
Maybe it's just her nature. She's always had this protective side to her ever since we were kids, and lately she's been concerned about making sure I'm keeping okay. I guess I haven't really given her or anyone else a reason to believe I can properly handle myself when shit goes sideways like it has; my track record is, as you already know, less than stellar. Still, she's on me almost daily, calling, texting, dropping in. I'd probably be annoyed with it all if it wasn't so endearing.
Motives aside, her concern has helped to break up the abundance of nothing that's spread throughout the better part of my suspension. At day seventeen, I need all the help I can get. All I've managed to do since I've gotten up is watch the worst of the worst daytime TV (courtroom dramatics and talking heads and exclamations of "You are the father!", galore) and browse that stupid fucking dating app.
I ask, "How did you keep a straight face when you saw the kid was missing an eyebrow?"
Typing, typing, typing. "PAINFULLY. Like, sides aching, eyes watering kind of painful."
I catch myself thinking back on my own situation as I ask the key follow-up question: "How much you wanna bet he was trying to impress a girl?"
"No bet. That's exactly what it was," she writes back. "He admitted as much to me when I saw him in the infirmary after class."
"He hurt bad?"
"Singed ego, mostly."
I grin, take a sip of my cold coffee. "Maybe she'll find the one-brow look hot."
"If not, he can always burn the other one off in the next class," she tells me. "You know, so it's nice and even again."
I laugh. "Are we terrible?"
More typing. A pause. And then: "We're each other's kind of terrible. I'm alright with that."
Each other's kind of terrible, huh? "I'm alright with that, too."
—
I WISH I had more experience with dating than I do now. All I really have to draw upon are the relationships I had with Rinoa and with Zurie, and in both those instances, they came to me, not the other way around. Evaluating profiles and initiating contact, as easy as it may seem from behind the comfort of a screen, feels impersonal at best and dehumanizing at worst. And I know, you'd think maybe I'd be better at it, since it's quite literally my job. But going through our roster of SeeDs to determine the best party for a gig is just a part of doing business. This is a lot more personal.
Still, as I attempt to find myself in this swipe right world, I catch myself daydreaming about one of my earliest dates with Rinoa. And for once, it's kind of nice, looking back. It's not often that I'm able to reflect without being clouded by all the bad and the bullshit that permeated so much of my time with her.
I can still picture it so clearly; it was one of the few times in my life where I was just, well, happy. And it wasn't the fleeting kind of happiness that you know will eventually slip away. This was just happy for the sake itself, plain as the white linen dress she wore that night. We were eighteen, a pair of love-drunk, ignorant kids out for a night in Balamb. I took her to this movie that she'd been begging for weeks to see (Ten Things I Hate About You, if I recall correctly). I remember worrying that I might feel like being stuck in plotline purgatory; rom-coms were never my thing. But she knew me well back then, and managed to sneak a mickey of Fireball in her purse. I told her it helped make the movie tolerable; what I didn't tell her was that I liked it more than I cared to admit.
Either way, we left ninety minutes later, escaping the too-cold theatre, slightly buzzed and full of popcorn, and instead finding ourselves in the trappings of another humid summer night. I remember getting ready to call a cab to take us back to Garden, when she batted the phone away and started heading up the boardwalk. At first, I was confused, but then I followed after her, trailing the scent of Guerlain Shalimar through sea salt air.
She was smiling as she pointed out the arcade; it was noisy, bright, full of kids who were too young to get into bars. I remember sighing upon sight, my shoulders slumping. I was already so tired from working all day; I didn't see how a myriad of sirens or flashing lights or sound effects could help the dull headache that was threatening to surface from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
But then Rinoa put her hands on her hips and shook her head. I knew immediately that "no" was not an option. I tried to turn her down anyway, which of course made her dig her heels in. That's when chanting started up, "Ar-cade, ar-cade, ar-cade," and then it was her tugging on my arm in an attempt to usher me along.
I didn't want to admit that in spite of how I felt, I was actually having a bit of fun at her expense, holding my ground as she made a fool of herself, watching her needlessly prancing around my still figure on the boardwalk.
It wasn't until she said (in the snarkiest tone she could muster): "Come on, Leonhart. Scared I'll beat you at Mortal Kombat?" that I broke character.
See, the part that she didn't know was that I had been going to that arcade all throughout my childhood, on weekends, over summer breaks. It was a safe haven for me, a welcome home for misfit kids. I knew the games. I wasn't about to let her beat me.
So I smirked, nodded, and told her, "Game on."
After that, it was me, her, plastic cups full of tokens, more Fireball, and cries of "Fatality!" coming out of the nearly-shot speakers as I won game after game. And Rinoa was laughing as she complained about how unfair it all was, declaring that I must have been cheating, that someone as boring and predictable as me could never have possibly enjoyed the arcade as a child.
Six losses later, she went in search of more games, determined to win at something—air hockey, Guitar Hero, pinball. She was decidedly better than I was at shooting basketballs into the moving hoop, and bested me twice in foosball. Dance Dance Revolution, I let her play on her own—there was not enough cinnamon-flavoured booze in the world to get me stomping on arrows like a madman. (I did, however, thoroughly enjoy watching her as she flailed around like a windsock, all while cursing breathlessly to the obnoxious techno music.)
The date ended with us stumbling out to an empty boardwalk just after midnight, not as sorceress and knight, certainly not as client and commander, but as a pair of dumb teenagers, laughing, in love, far too oblivious to see beyond that moment in time. And I tried to memorize her in that moment, much in the same way I try to memorize Harper now, her smile under full moon, the feeling of her holding me close.
I really did think then that nothing could separate us, that nothing could make it all unravel. Looking back, I was naïve. But was there any harm in believing in something? I had never been anything to anyone before. The feeling of belonging, of being loved—I'd only had it for a short time up to that point, but it was already something I had grown accustomed to. Rinoa had broken down the barriers, made things comfortable, easy.
What I didn't know was just how dangerous that comfort could be.
—
MY THIRD APP-BASED date comes with a lot of familiar territory. A punkish kind of girl who loves music, a few laughs, some drinks down at The Oxford while would-be rock stars try their hand on the stage with the Thursday night jam band.
Noelle O., 25, is nothing like Jenna or Elise. She has no ex-boyfriends to speak of, no five-year corporate plans. She works as a massage therapist and rents a room from a spa on Commercial. It's a job she says she's good and happy with, and her client base has afforded her a comfortable enough lifestyle: she's got a studio apartment in the same neighbourhood, a cat named Ed, an older car that still reliably gets her from A to B.
Right away, she's easy to talk to. As such, I discover that she's a big fan of Bowie (and that she secretly likes Wang Chung), that she has completely memorized the lyrics to Alphabet Aerobics, that her favourite book is Fight Club, and that her favourite movie is, well, Fight Club.
Even the small talk isn't quite as painful or as forced as it was with my first two dates. She tells me that she's lived in Deling her whole life, that she has an older sister and a younger half-brother on her dad's side, and that she spent a year travelling abroad after high school before going back to college to study massage therapy.
I don't feel all that out of my depth with her either, not like I did with Elise. As far as attractiveness goes, I figure we're on a similar level. She's not drop-dead gorgeous, but she's still pretty cute with her crooked smile, her pierced nose, her olive skin and jet black hair. Hell, we're even dressed similarly—she's got her black leather jacket and ripped jeans, a tight yellow Ben Folds t-shirt; I'm wearing my worn denim jacket, black tee, black jeans.
One thing that becomes more evident as the night goes on is how clever she is. I could already tell she had a sense of wit from our initial chat; she was able to articulate all the things that bugged her about prior dates in a way that was as humorous as it was precise. Meeting her and hearing some of the horror stories in-person is even more enjoyable. I catch myself grinning as she tells me about the guy who couldn't stop talking about his "gains", or the guy who cried over his ex in the middle of dinner.
(For my part, I know that I'm supposed to take the hint; I make a point of remembering all the things that bothered her, so as to not repeat the mistakes of my predecessors.)
So far, I think I am doing alright. We sit in our booth, downing beers, picking apart the jammers going up on stage. We make bets on whether or not they'll be any good, guessing which one is going to flub his guitar solo, or which one is tone deaf enough to attempt Bohemian Rhapsody. And I know, we're just a couple of judgemental assholes, but I kind of like it. I laugh more than I thought I would've.
The night is actually, dare I say, good, which is weird to think. Maybe it's true what they say, that third time's the charm? I allow myself to wonder if maybe there is some hope for me after all, that perhaps this whole dating app thing might not be a total bust. Noelle is someone I'm actually into learning more about, someone I can see myself going on a second date with. Even better that it seems like she might be into me, too; it doesn't take my SeeD training to be able to read her body language, all relaxed and comfortable, or the warm, inviting look in her eyes.
There's a spark of hope, the glimmer of a bright side. And just when I think I might be making a bit of progress, that maybe I could reach out and pull myself a little higher up the proverbial rope, she brings up the topic of kids.
It starts off innocently enough. The band starts playing a cover of Rio by Duran Duran, and Noelle tells me about how her mom used to play the song over and over when she was a kid. Then she asks me about what I was like as a kid, and I give her my sad little story: how my mother died in childbirth, how I didn't know my father, how I had only my sister until she was taken away, how Quistis befriended me and helped me through the rest of my time at the orphanage.
"That's so…terrible," she says. "I couldn't imagine growing up without a family."
I shrug. "I guess it's a matter of perspective. I knew I was missing something, but I didn't have a firm grasp on it at the time." I pause, have a sip of my beer. There's this small grin that forms on my lips as I think about how that's all changed, now. My family—it's one of the only things in my adult life that's gone mostly right. "I was actually able to find my father and sister again, back when I was seventeen. Since then, I've just been making up for lost time. It's been good."
"That's good to hear." Noelle leans forward, pressing her elbows into the table as she rests her chin on her hands. A smile tugs at her features, wide. "Have you experienced the dreaded parental nagging yet? It can be such a drag, especially with my mom." She shakes her head, lets out a laugh before continuing, "She's constantly bugging me to settle down and start a family. I think it's because my sister just had her first and now she's got grandbaby fever."
I laugh. "Sounds like she's getting ahead of herself."
Her smile doesn't fade, but there's still a nearly imperceptible sigh that manages to escape as she says the next bit: "I don't have the heart to tell her that I never want kids."
"Oh?" is all I can manage to say.
"Yeah, I just don't really like the little shits," she says, shrugging. For a moment, she seems mostly amused at her half-joke, but then she takes a longer look at me, and her grin drops. "...Um. You don't want kids, do you?"
God, I could laugh at the irony. Here's someone I actually get on with, someone who might be compatible, and she, of fucking course, does not want or even like kids. Perfect. I let out a long, slow exhale before looking her in the eye. "I have a daughter."
"Oh," is all she manages to say for a solid minute. The pause seems to last forever as she downs the rest of her beer.
"I guess I should have said that upfront," I say in a sad, vain attempt to salvage our conversation.
"...Yeah." She nods slowly. "And I, um, didn't really mean the 'little shits' part. I was just joking around."
"I know; it's okay. I figured as much."
I feel this awkward tightness in the back of my throat as I turn my attention back to my beer and polish off the rest of the contents. We're both quiet for another long moment that's further punctuated by the band wrapping up their set. Then it's the clanging of dishes and the chatter of other patrons and my reeling mind. At some point, the DJ starts up again, playing some bland mix of top forty, but I don't really hear any of it.
We order another round anyways, try our best to fight our way through some more small talk. Things don't really recover, though. The dealbreaker is already out in the open, a bright red flag in an empty field—her, unwilling to have kids in her life, and me, unwilling to let my indiscretions come between myself and Harper ever again.
Third time's not the charm, after all. It's a disappointing thought. Still, we offer each other a few empty niceties as we finish our beers, pay up, head outside. Noelle smiles, tells me she had a nice time, gives me a hug. She doesn't message again.
—
WHEN I PICK up Harper on the final day of January, the weight of my singledom starts to settle in. Rinoa just seems so comfortable with where her life is at now; I haven't seen her like that in a long time, maybe not ever. Because even in the earliest days of our relationship—arcade games and boardwalk nights aside—there was always that unspoken tension running between us, drawn taut and sharp as razor wire. First, it was her power. Then, it was my work, the dangerous missions, the burden of command. After that, the stress, and the drinking, and the drugs, and well, you know the rest.
In the end, we were struggling just to make things run at all, let alone run smoothly. Whatever happiness we shared was all but fleeting, and all we were left with was us, scarred and flawed. Hurting. Hurting each other. Add a kid into that turmoil and we were destined to fall away from each other.
It almost makes me feel a bit better about her relationship with Adrian. And that's not to say that seeing them together has somehow ceased to sting—I don't know that I'll ever look at the two of them together and not feel some pang of regret—but at least I know he's good to her. Unlike us, where we had to work so fucking hard just to exist around each other, what she has with him is easy, something she doesn't have to worry much about.
Not to mention, I am getting so sick and tired of living in the fucking past. I've wasted so much time there, wallowing on could-have-beens, that I've often failed to see what's ahead of me. Having foresight and knowing what to do are two different things, though. I still don't know what it is that I want. I've got notepads and ropes and a bunch of tired metaphors rolling around in my brain, but still no plan (unless you count the slow, sometimes arduous process of elimination I've been putting myself through these past couple of months).
As I'm standing in the foyer waiting for Harper, I can feel Rinoa's eyes on me. She doesn't try to hide it either, rather the opposite as she raises an eyebrow and sends me a smirk. "You look better."
I give her a look of my own. "'Better'?"
She giggles, shakes her head. "Sorry, I just mean, you look like you're doing well today. Better than you have been."
I shrug. "I feel about the same."
"No," she says. There's something that flashes in her expression then, warm, genuine. "Something's different. I'm not sure what it is, exactly. But something."
I force a grin and remind her of the advice she'd imparted on me only a couple weeks ago. "Just, you know…trying for myself, I guess."
The warm look on her face settles into a smile. "And how's that going?"
I peer over her shoulder to see if Adrian is looming within earshot; I don't need him in all his perfect glory hearing about my efforts (read: struggles) as of late. No sign of him. I let out a small sigh. "It's…been hard."
"How so?"
I half-laugh. There was a brief time in my life where nothing would have felt too personal to not share with Rinoa, but now, it feels a bit like an invasion. I have to swallow down the guarded feeling that creeps up my lungs and into my throat. "I guess I…," I pause, reconsider my words. "I just don't really know what I'm doing, yet."
Rinoa rests her hands on her hips, tilts her head. "It's okay. One day at a time, right?"
It's cliché, but she's not wrong. I nod. "Yeah."
Harper comes running down the stairs then, her baby tooth smile bright as she waves a piece of paper in front of my face. "Look Daddy! I drew me and you!"
I take the drawing from her, her choice of brown and black and peach crayon, the lines clumsy and bold. Us, holding hands, smiling. The grin I was forcing feels a little less so as I exhale some of the tension away. "I love it, Harps. We'll have to hang it up when we get home."
She nods and turns to Rinoa, gives her a hug, a kiss goodbye. "Love you, Mommy!"
"Love you too, babe." Rinoa pulls Harper's boots off the rack and helps her put them on before focussing back on me once more. "You know, Squall, sometimes it's the act of trying that makes all the difference."
I stare at the drawing a bit longer, then at Harper, then at her. "Maybe," I finally say.
"Definitely," she counters. "The rest will come into focus eventually. The answers you're looking for could be closer than you think."
"Are you okay, Daddy?" Harper asks then. My heart sinks a bit. Again, she's asking the one question I wish she'd never ask. I hate that I make her feel this anxious. I just want her to have a father who isn't a goddamned trainwreck.
I tuck her drawing safely into her backpack and pick her up, bury my face in her hair, hold her tight. She smells like kids' shampoo as I kiss the top of her head. My answer comes out the same as it always does, but this time, it doesn't feel like as much of a lie as it did before: "Yeah Harps. I'm okay."