Page 86 of Play Dirty

I nod again. “You guys are gonna kill this parenting stuff. I can tell.”

“You will too, Jordan,” Chella says. “One day, when you find the right people”—and I laugh at that. Because she knows me. And she loves me anyway—“you guys are gonna rock the family shit. You’re one of the good ones.”

“Fuck,” I say. But my throat is tight and my eyes are watering. “No, I’m not. What I do, what I did —”

“What you did,” Chella says, interrupting me, “for me… that was a gift. OK?”

And I don’t know what she’s talking about. Killing her father? Or just being her friend?

I look to Smith for help and he gives me a weak smile. “She knows it was you. And I told her I paid you.”

“He also told me you didn’t cash the check yet.”

I shake my head. “No. I can’t take that money. I shouldn’t have played that game. I shouldn’t have played any of them. It’s all fucked up, you guys.”

“What is?” Chella says.

“Me,” I say. “I’m so fucked up.” I lean forward, elbows on knees, staring down at my shoes. A position of defeat I’m starting to get used to.

“Is this about Augustine and Alexander? Did something happen?”

I shake my head, unable to look her in the face. “No, it’s not about them.”

“Then who?” Smith asks. “I’m fuckin’ buffed out these days, dude. Fighting those damn teenagers down at the gym has got me ripped. I can mess people up for you.”

I can’t help it, I laugh and look up at him.

“No shit, man. You need some muscle? I’m down.”

“I don’t need muscle, dumbass. I have Darrel and Finn, remember?”

He reaches out, fist first, and I lean forward and give him a bump.

“Then who?” Chella asks.

And then I have to make a decision. To pull out all my neatly-folded secrets or keep them packed up in that fucking suitcase I’m carrying around.

And I don’t know what it is about Chella that makes me want to confess things to her. What makes me want to hear her opinions and ask her advice. But I do.

So I start from the beginning. Not that night when I was twelve, that wasn’t the beginning. I start with the day the Club closed. How I drank myself unconscious. And then the games that came after. And Ixion, and all those messy feelings that come with him. And the house and why I can’t go home.

It ends with the night at the cabin when I was twelve and then I let out a long breath and wait for their judgment.

“Wow,” Chella says.

I look at Smith. He says, “Fuck… that… asshole.” And then he stands up and paces the floor. “Just fuck him. You know what, Jordan?”

“What?” I say, taken aback at his sudden anger.

He points his finger at me. “You don’t owe him shit, OK? You don’t owe him shit. You don’t owe him an explanation about who you are or what kind of people you want to share your intimate moments with. You don’t owe him a goddamned success story or… or… a fucking law career. Or even a fucking promise to do your best. Because his job was pretty simple. Be. Your. Father. That’s it. And you need to tell him that.”

“You think?”

“Smith,” Chella says, interrupting. “I mean, he should do what he wants. Don’t tell him that.”

“No,” Smith says, shaking his head. Still pacing the floor back and forth in front of the kitchen island. “No. I did that, Jordan. I didn’t confront them. And I don’t know Ixion but I know his story. He didn’t confront his father either. But you know what?” And now he’s looking at Chella.

“What?” she says, pouting her lips.