DEBT

by Jessica Gadziala

I could get back to that being enough. I knew it.

  So then we ordered pizza. I made batter for chocolate macadamia cookies while we waited for delivery and put them in the oven as we ate, my father telling me about the people he met at rehab, the therapists, what the building was like, the grounds, the food. My father, being my father, made every single detail sound like the most fascinating thing you had ever heard in your life before.

  We had dessert and he promised me things were changing. And while he was going to crash with me for a short amount of time while he went job hunting and apartment seeking, he guaranteed me that it was temporary, that I would never have to take care of him again. While the practical part of me was skeptical, I was still hopeful. I had been waiting my entire life to have a normal relationship with him.

  I made sure he was asleep, closed myself in the bathroom, and cried until I was sure it was all out of me, then convinced myself that was it, it was done, I was over it.

  Of course, the next morning proved that false.

  Somehow, the ache in my chest felt more acute. I stood in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, wondering why it was so different. I'd loved men before. I had shared my life with people over long periods of time. One would think that those breakups would hurt me worse, would take days, weeks, months to get over. But I always bounced back relatively well. It was in my nature. I learned early to take my hits on the chin and keep moving. That was what the dissolution of relationships had always been like for me. It was a blow. It sent me into a baking or cleaning frenzy. I'd cry. I'd binge watch silly Disney movies. Then I moved on.

  It had never felt like a piece of me had been ripped off then washed away.

  But then again, none of the men in my life had been anything like Byron.

  He was an ocean.

  And I would spend my life trying to wring saltwater from my bones.

  Unsuccessfully.

  "Get a grip," I said to my reflection, disgusted with myself.

  He was a lunar eclipse. He was an ocean.

  Such bull.

  He was just a man. And not a particularly good one either.

  The sex was off the charts. But sex wasn't that important.

  He could easily read me. But if I could learn to let down my guards a little, other men would be able to as well.

  He was rich. But I never cared about that kind of thing.

  I nodded at my reflection as I buttoned up my shirt all the way up like Byron hated. If I could just keep the running monologue going for the day, week, month, year, the entirety of what was left of my life... I would be okay. Maybe one day, even great.

  At least that was what I needed to make myself believe.

  "Alright, Dad, crepes for breakfast?" I asked as I walked out into the living room, expecting to see him still asleep on the couch. But not only was he not there, his blanket was neatly folded with the pillow on top. See, while my dad wasn't exactly a slob, he wasn't a neat freak either. I was constantly having to fold his blanket when he stayed over.

  I walked into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee and a handwritten note informing me he was out handing out his resume. Before gambling started taking over most of his life, my father had been a pretty successful salesman. He had the perfect personality for it. But every time he won big, he would quit his job, thinking he was somehow going to turn that 'big' into 'bigger' and we'd be living large in a mansion somewhere being fanned beside the pool and drinking champagne like water.

  After a while, he just stopped even trying to hold down a full-time job.

  But as I nixed the idea of crepes and ran to the store to stock up on groceries, I felt the hope spreading.

  By the time I got back from the market, my father was back in my apartment, still in his suit, sans jacket, flipping through the newspaper. He gave me a smile and prattled on about the places he dropped his resume, sounding optimistic, sounding happy, as I carefully put together a lasagna for us.

  I had just pushed it into the oven when he walked back in, brows furrowed, with some paper in one hand and my cell in the other.

  "What's up?" I asked, not sure what his expression meant, and I knew my father's expressions pretty damn well.

  "You just got a phone call about your business. Because someone was handed a business card for you at a party," he said, brows furrowed. "They placed an order for their upcoming baby shower. It's... quite an order too," he added, waving the paper at me. I saw then that he had my business card in his hand as well. "I found this with some recipes in your nightstand. Prue... I've been home for almost a full day. You let me blabber on about the cafeteria food and you didn't think you should mention that you started a business?"

  I took a breath. "I didn't. I hope you got their number so I can call back and tell them that as well."

  "Dear Prudence, you have business cards," he told me, waving the little pink rectangle at me. I'd snagged it after the party, wanting to really check it out, wanting it for a keepsake. Byron had the rest in his office somewhere.

  Not for long, I guessed.

  I felt myself wince at that, but pretended to ignore it. "I didn't have those made, Dad," I said with a shrug, trying to reach for it and the order paper out of his hand, but he yanked his arm back.

  "What do you mean you didn't make them? Who made them then?"

  "Dad, really, this is a non-issue. It was never meant to be anything serious. Really."

  His head cocked to the side and his gaze felt like it saw down to my soul in that moment. "Did St. James have these made up?" he asked, his tone both questioning and confused.

  "Dad..."

  "He did, didn't he?" he demanded, brow raising.

  "Yes. Okay, yes. He used to make me make dessert a few times a week. He liked them. He decided to pass that information around."

  "He made you business cards then handed them out at a party where he had you provide the desserts."

  "Yes. But that is literally all it was. A whim. I was never actually planning on..."

  "Why not?" he cut me off, something he almost never did.

  "Why not?" I repeated, then waved a hand out. "I have bills to pay. I need a steady job."

  "And you can't have a steady job and bake on the weekends?"

  "Dad, I am trying to be realis..."

  "Prue, there is more to life than being realistic all the time. I know I haven't exactly been the best role model about things like this, but I know a life where all you do is work a job you don't like and pay bills is no life at all. You always wanted to bake. I should have encouraged something like this a long time ago. But I was always too selfish to."

  "You weren't selfish. You were sick."

  "Yes and no, Prue. Yes and no. Gambling is an addiction, true. But it's not like a drug. It didn't change my brain chemistry. I knew that every time I went out, I was hurting you. I knew that, but I did it anyway. That's selfish. You can layer whatever excuses you want on that to try to blur the truth to it, but it's still there underneath it all. I was selfish and you paid the price for that more than I did most of the time. I see that clearly now. And because I see that, I'm not letting you self-sabotage because of what might happen. See, baby, the only way you are guaranteed to fail is to not try at all. I raised a woman who is a lot of things: strong, intelligent, funny, resourceful, giving, loving, loyal. But I did not raise a failure. I didn't raise a quitter either. I told this nice woman that you would happily cater the desserts for her shower, and that is what you are going to do. If you need a reason, I will pull the Dad-card and say: because I said so."

  "You never played the Dad-card before," I said, smiling a little. He really hadn't. For all the stress about money and the uncertainty of his being home for anything, my father had been a very hands-off parent. If I wanted to wear pink and yellow striped pants and a bright orange sweatshirt, that's what I wore, and he paraded me around proudly. If I wanted to stay up all night and eat junk food, I did. Granted, I paid with a tummy ache and
going to school exhausted, but I did it. When I wanted to date, I dated. When I wanted to come home, I came home. I had no rules. I always figured that was why I came out so rigid myself, because I was given limitless freedom my whole life and learned early that there were real-life consequences for my actions.

  "You never gave me a reason to, baby," he said, moving toward me and putting a hand to my cheek. "This is the first time in your entire life that I have thought you are being foolish." His hand fell and he put the order on my fridge under a magnet we had bought on a trip to Las Vegas when I was twelve. I bought it in the lobby gift shop with a spare chip I had found under my father's bed. "Now I have to wonder what it means that Byron St. James managed to put something into motion in under a month what I haven't in twenty-some-odd years."

  "It means nothing," I insisted, hoping my voice didn't sound as hysterical to him as it did to me.

  "Of course not. Of course not, baby," he agreed, tone back to the normal one I was used to, carefree, light, friendly. "Do I have time to run out and grab some red before dinner?" he asked.

  "You have a good hour," I told him, not wanting to admit how badly I could use a glass of wine.

  "Alright," he said, seeming a bit distracted, "I'll be back in a while, Dear Prudence," he told me, kissing my cheek, and heading for the door.

  An hour passed.

  Then two.

  Then three.

  The lasagna got cold.

  And I felt a familiar bubbling, churning feeling in my stomach.

  One night.

  I got one night.

  But I guess I would take one night over none.

  My phone rang some time around eleven, making my heart fly into my chest as I scrambled across my apartment to grab it where my father had left it that afternoon. "Hello?"

  "Prue?" a voice that was definitely not my father's, but also somewhat familiar, called.

  "Yes..."

  "Prue, it's Aaron."

  I paused, swallowing. "Aaron from Mandy's?"

  "The one and only. Glad to know you haven't forgotten me already, though I admit, it hurts to only be remembered as an employee of Mandy's. But, I guess, in this case... it is fitting."

  Yep.

  I knew what was coming.

  "My dad is there, isn't he?" I asked, and the disappointment was so deep that I could drown in it.

  "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. But, yes, he is. And, well, you know how Byr..."

  "I'll be there in ten, fifteen tops," I rushed over him, not quite wanting to hear his name when I was already a swirling mass of unhappiness.

  "I wish I could be calling you under different circumstances..."

  "It's okay, Aaron. It's not your fault. And I really appreciate this."

  With that, I hung up and went to my closet, pulling out a tight black dress and sensible heels and slipping into them on autopilot. I grabbed my wallet and keys and drove to the boardwalk, sure I was seconds away from physically choking on my sadness. It was right there in my throat, so wide and dense that it was hard to swallow past.

  The last time I had stepped foot in Mandy's, it had been with Byron. And he had carefully, purposefully stripped away all the negativity I had surrounding the establishment in my head. But as I walked up to it, my heels click-clicking annoyingly on the pavement, it was as if that had never happened. Dread welled up strong and familiar as I gave one of the doormen a half-smile as he waved me inside.

  The floor was packed and I had walked around, scanning, for the better part of twenty minutes, anxiety steadily building as I caught no sight of my father.

  My elbow was snagged from behind and I whirled fast enough for the room to spin for a second before my eyes settled on Aaron's kind face. "He's back here," he informed me as he gripped my elbow and led me toward the offices. "Thought it was best to get him off the floor before he could cause any kind of scene," he supplied, leading me to Byron's office. He must have felt me stiffen because his hand released my elbow and stroked down my arm. "He's in there, I promise," he told me, reaching for the doorknob.

  I pushed inside, lifting my chin, trying not to let too much of the devastation show.

  "Oh, there she is," my father's voice called, sounding way too cheerful for someone who got dragged into the offices at a casino.

  I got maybe a foot and a half inside before I realized that my father was lounging in the chair in front of the desk.

  And Byron was sitting in his chair behind it.

  I moved to go back a step in surprise and bumped into Aaron.

  His hands went down on my shoulders, squeezing a little reassuringly, as I tilted my head back on his chest to look at him. But his face gave me nothing. So I looked back to the only other safe face in the room.

  "Dad, is everything okay?"

  "Fantastic, actually, baby. Why don't you come sit down?" he asked as I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end and I knew, I just knew without looking that Byron's gaze was glued on me.

  "I think I'm good. I'd really rather get home. I have a lasagna waiting, you remember."

  He grimaced a little, steeping his hands in front of his mouth for a second. "I'm sorry that had to wait."

  "Why did it have to wait?" I asked, hearing a bit of the defeat, the tiredness in my tone. "You seemed like you were in a good place. You seemed like you were doing better."

  "Oh, I am, baby. I am. See... I wasn't here tonight to hit the tables."

  I felt my brow lower, not knowing my father to be a liar, but also not quite believing him either. "Then what were you here for?"

  "To see me," Aaron said from behind me as he gently nudged me forward so he could step in and close the door.

  I turned slightly toward Aaron, mostly because it put my back to Byron. "Why would he want to see you?"

  "To discuss you actually," he offered, moving over toward my father, forcing me to half-face Byron again.

  "To discuss... me? Why?"

  "More accurately," my father cut in, "you and Byron."

  "There is no me and Byron," I insisted, proud that my voice came off cold and not bitter like I felt.

  "Yes, Dear Prudence, but that seems to have a lot to do with me."

  I felt my brows draw together. A lot to do with him? When had he ever interfered in my life before?

  "Before you and Matt came back from the store," Byron broke in and I had no choice but to face him. And seeing his perfect face, his deep, dark eyes, and his trademark straight-line lips was like a knife to the chest cavity, "your father came to visit me. We had a... conversation."

  "What kind of conversation?" I asked, looking back at my father.

  "The kind where I told him to stay away from my daughter," my father supplied shamelessly.

  "What? Why would you do that?"

  "Because I didn't think he was any good for you, baby," he said, making his tone quiet.

  "What?" I exploded, a hand going up to run through my hair. "What made you think you had any right to do that? I'm a grown woman. I have been making decisions about the men I get involved with since I was fifteen years old. You've never cared before."

  "I've always cared, baby. The fact that you have dated every single contestant for the Dullest Man In The World has always driven me to the edge. But they were safe choices so I kept my mouth shut. But when I got wind that you and Byron were involved..."

  "What?" I prompted.

  "I had to put an end to it."

  "He made some valid points," Byron added, drawing my attention. And I guess there must have been the pain I was feeling in my eyes because his face softened slightly.

  "And they would be?"

  "That I'm no good for you. That I'll hurt you. That you can do better." He paused, then added, "All three points that I agreed with."

  "Except I was wrong," my father put in before I could open my mouth. "He made business cards for you," he added.

  "And?"

  "And he threw a party to sho
w off your desserts."

  "Okay, Dad..."

  "Baby, he cares about you. He might be too stubborn to admit it," he said, raising a brow at Byron.

  "I'm not too stubborn to admit it. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm no good for you."

  "I heard you got her on an airplane," my father continued. "We went to Disney once... and Vegas... we had to drive, Byron. Even as a kid, I couldn't get her on a plane. She got hysterical just talking about the possibility. You got her on a plane. Then you got her back on a plane to get her home again. You made her confront me about all the things she had never told me before. Don't try to deny that; Aaron here filled me in on that being all your doing. You got a business started for her because you knew she'd never do it for herself. I know men like you, Byron. You're not like me; you don't have all the words. But you show it through your actions. And maybe I think you're a real asshole at times, but you have shown me that you have cared more about my daughter in a month than any of the other men she has dated for years." Byron remained silent, but his eyes were active as my father turned to me. "And you, baby, you saved all those recipes. I'm guessing he wrote them. And a chip from Mandy's. Aaron told me he dragged you in here to get you over your hangups about casinos. You also have a 'do not disturb' sign that, we imagine, you got from the hotel in Florida. You saved all that stuff. You don't save things that don't matter to you, Prue."

  "You don't have to convince me that I... cared," I said the word quietly, as if that would stop Byron from hearing, "about Byron, Dad. I'm very aware of that."

  "And yet, you're in your apartment and he's in his house and you're both acting like a couple of immature teenagers too stubborn to be the first to explain how you're feeling. Making this old man," he said, waving a hand at himself, "have to get involved when I told myself the day you were born that I wasn't going to try to interfere with how you wanted to live your life."

  "It was what it was," I said, shrugging. "And now it's over. This is silly."

  "Alright," he said, standing with a clap, "Aaron and I will just leave you two here for a minute to talk things over. If, after that, you still don't want to pursue this, fine. I will back off. But," he said, putting a hand to my cheek, "I do think that would be a giant mistake, Dear Prudence."