Page 13 of Emmett

“Keeping the scruff, then?” He asks.

“No, definitely not,” I tell him, scratching at the hair on my jaw. “I just—”

He drops the bag he’s holding and dusts his hands off against each other. “Come on,” he tells me, and he walks past me back toward my bathroom.

I follow behind, not sure exactly what he’s doing, and too tired to care. The hangover is starting to hit, and the sunlight coming in from the windows is slowly becoming just a little too bright. Combine that with the crushing weight of worrying my dad, and I’m toast.

Dad crouches under the sink and digs through my stuff, finally setting a can of shave gel and my razor on top of the counter.

“One more step,” he tells me.

I stand in silence as he dispenses the gel onto his hand and works it into a rich, foamy lather before spreading it overmy jawline and down my neck, covering the untidy hair that has taken up residence on my face.

Tilting my chin up, he carefully pulls the razor across my skin. “I think the last time we did this, you were six or seven,” he tells me. “You were always watching me shave, and it drove youcrazythat you couldn’t shave your own face. Jesus, you would get so frustrated. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “You finally got a bunch of yarn and stuck it to my chin just to shut me up.”

“You were so excited,” he chuckles as he’s pulled into the memory of that day. “That bathroom may as well have been Disneyland, the way you were bouncing around. You were so excited to be a man, with your little popsicle stick ‘razor.’” Turning my face the other direction, he says, “You are a good man, Emmett, and I am so proud of who you are; even if right now, I am furious with you for not telling me you were in trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” I choke.

“Don’t be sorry. If this happens again, just don’t let me find out about it because someone like Nash Montgomery is talking about you. You call me,” he tells me. “I will be here.”

I nod in silence as he reaches over to rinse the blade under the faucet. I’m so goddamn tired. My entire body feels like it’s made of lead and all I can think about doing is curling up and going to sleep for the next year of my life.

Dad extends the handle of the razor toward me and says, “Here. You finish the job.”

I have no option but to finish what he started; almost exactly half of my face is now clean-shaven, the other half a scruffy, unkempt mess that now, in contrast to the other side, absolutely screams ‘I’ve been wallowing in a pit of cheapliquor and self-loathing for two and a half weeks with no end in sight.’

I lean in toward the mirror and carefully pull the blade over my skin, feeling my dad’s eyes on me the entire time, watching as if he thinks I’ll find some way to pull the blade across my throat and end it all right here and now.

By the time that my skin is cleaned off, I feel a little bit lighter. Those voices are still loud, still slamming around in my head, but at the very least my body doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

We walk into the living room to assess the remaining damage – which is a lot – and Dad pulls his phone from his pocket. “Have you eaten anything other than pizza in the past two weeks?” He asks.

“Frozen nuggets.”

With a sigh, he pulls his phone to his ear and steps out of the room while he makes a call. I grab a couple of bottles and drop them into the trash bag sitting open in the middle of the floor before finding myself right back on the couch. I’m sitting upright, at least.

Ten or so minutes later, Dad comes back into the room, sliding his phone into his back pocket, and he reaches for the garbage bag on the floor.

“Real food will be here soon, and a new couch will be here in the next few hours,” he tells me. “So put five things into this bag, and you can be finished.”

“I’m tired, Dad,” I gripe.

“I know you are, bud, but you can do this. Just pick up five things.”

“Five things,” I repeat.

He holds his hand up with his fingers spread out and says, “That’s it.”

My entire body aches with exhaustion, but still, I take a deep breath before leaning over to grab some crap off of the table, counting as I shove each piece into the bag.

I force myself through eating in a similar fashion, counting each bite silently to myself as I dig through a bowl full of greens with a little bit of fresh grilled chicken mixed into it.

By the halfway mark, I’m choking it down and no longer trying to match Dad’s pace as he digs into his own lunch. I set my fork down into the half-full styrofoam to-go container and press the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Dad ruffles his hand through my hair and I look up to see a proud smile on his face, though his eyes don’t match; they’re sad. I hurt him today.