Awkwardly Ever After by Marni Bates

up with him. And I’m not even sure why I said half of the things that I did. Why it scares me so badly to admit that I like him.
    â€œFine,” I lied. “Could we, uh . . . talk?”
    My dad tipped his head quizzically. “I thought that’s what we were already doing.”
    â€œNo, I mean, yes. But—” I gestured awkwardly at the couch. “Could we really talk?”
    He settled down on his preferred side of the couch, the place that had one enormous wet ring in the fabric from all the drinks he had rested beside him over the course of the past ten years. The couch we had before this one probably had a similar stain.
    â€œWhat’s this about? Is someone giving you trouble at school?” My dad took a long pull from his beer as if he were bracing himself for the worst. Or maybe it was just because he wanted more.
    There were times I didn’t know who made more excuses for my dad’s alcoholism: him or me.
    â€œI . . . I’m, uh—” I stuttered before I froze.
    There would be no taking back this conversation. So I hovered there, knowing that as soon as my silence was broken, my life would never be the same. My relationship with my dad would forever be altered by the outcome.
    â€œI’m worried about you,” I blurted out in a breath. “Your drinking is out of control, Dad.”
    He laughed.
    That was one option I had never imagined. I’d anticipated a series of somber nods before he took yet another sip, or . . . for him to get defensive. Grumpy. Uncommunicative. Distant. Something.
    Instead, he was acting as if I had pulled some childish prank on him.
    â€œYou had me scared for a moment, Melanie. I thought this was something serious,” he laughed again. “I just like finishing the day with a cold one. Nothing wrong with that.”
    Denial.
    I forced myself to remain outwardly calm.
    â€œIt’s not a cold one, Dad. It’s a cold eight. ” My hands started shaking, so I pressed them flat against my jeans. “And if you had a long day at work—maybe a customer gave you a hard time about pipes or bolts or something—well, then time to break out the hard stuff.”
    He rubbed his forehead as if I were responsible for a pounding migraine. As if he had just come home from a long, grueling day of work and the last thing he needed was his daughter giving him a hard time about the way he chose to relax.
    My mouth snapped shut, but I still couldn’t find it within me to regret letting the truth out in the first place.
    He bailed.
    Maybe Dylan was satisfied with having that for an answer, but I had to try at least once to get through to my dad.
    â€œI’m fine, Melanie. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
    What was there for me to say to that? No, Dad, I’m not doing your drinking problem justice. It’s so much worse than I’m making it sound.
    He kissed me on the forehead. A quick peck, a scratchy brush of stubble, and a whiff of the oh-so-familiar scent of liquor; then he ruffled my hair. I felt like I was back to being a six-year-old.
    Because nothing, nothing had changed.
    â€œI have homework to do,” I mumbled, moving toward my bedroom as I heard the click of the remote and another murder show claimed my dad’s attention.
    I wanted to punch something. To rip something to shreds. Maybe throw a plate against the wall, shattering it into pieces. Something big enough that my dad would have to listen. Instead, I sank onto my bed and curled up so that I was hugging my knees to my chest while I tried to suppress the body-shaking heaves that wouldn’t quit. I wasn’t going to cry, though.
    Not competent Melanie Morris. Not the girl most likely to move confidently between the Notables and the Invisibles at Smith High School. She wouldn’t start blubbering just because her daddy refused to change his ways.
    Although I wish somebody could get that message through to my body,