Daddy's Home

by Landon Rockwell

  "Not your ex, Ethan. I'm talking about your daughter."

  I freeze in place. I feel a surge of emotion as though I actually might cry in front of this utter stranger. I've never cried in front of anybody in my entire life, let alone a man I've known for roughly fifteen minutes. I start to say, "Zoey, she's… "

  "She's the reason you're in this situation, right?" he says.

  He's right, she is. My kid is my world. Zoey comes before everything. And now she's been ripped away from me. I dropped out of college for her, I gave up my dream of working in film for her, and now I'm here doing these sessions so that I can have the right to spend time with her. He's more than right, we do pay a price for love. I know I did. I'm paying it now. "I would do anything for my daughter. There is no amount of pain or suffering available in this life that I wouldn't pay to be with her."

  I start to pace around his office until I reach a grey painted bookshelf in the corner. I thumb through a few of the books as I wait for his next pearl of wisdom.

  Am I being sarcastic? Sort of, but not totally.

  "I understand, Ethan. You're not crazy, everything you're saying makes total sense in case you needed any validation. But the incident… what happened that night?"

  Great, the fucking incident. The one mistake I made with Zoey that Elizabeth is now fiercely determined to use against me. Like I said, fucking bitch. I pull out a book that’s at least four inches thick. The book looks dense and complicated and the pages are filled with basically every single psychological diagnosis that exists. "Is there a label in this book that suits somebody who apparently almost fucked up his entire life all because of one mistake?" I say, unable to control my emotion, or my language.

  I didn't notice that Garrett got up from his chair. I flinch as his hand grabs onto the book. Now, we each have a hand on the book as our eyes meet. His smile appears warm, even though I will never trust him or anything else related to the courts. "Nobody is saying you did anything wrong that can't be fixed. But I need to hear your full side of things. Can we put this book down so that we can talk?"

  His energy is surprisingly calming. There’s an idiotic, desperate part of me that suddenly want to trust and open up to him. I really do. This man, all said and done, might be my only hope. But I'm also a realist.

  "You must think I'm crazy. And the whole point of me being here right now is to prove to you that I'm not crazy," I say.

  Garrett's arm twitches slightly. For a second there, I almost thought he was going to reach out and put his hand on me in some capacity. My flesh seems to tingle at the mere thought, as though I'm desperately craving physical affection from a complete stranger. I'm in deeper shit than I realized.

  "I don't think you're crazy. I just think you've been through a lot, that's all. And believe it or not, there is hope for you."

  I wonder what he means by that.

  It's the first time in months I've had any ray of positivity make its way into my soul. Does he mean that there's hope for me to reunite with Zoey and be able to take care of her and be a real part of her life? Does he mean even more, like maybe I won't have to spend the rest of my life stuffing burrito shells to make a living?

  Garrett gestures towards the velvet couch with his hand.

  Take two, I tell myself.

  Maybe this man does have something to offer me. Maybe he's the answer I've been looking for considering this is the first ounce of hope I’ve experienced in forever.

  I walk towards the couch and prepare myself to tell the story of what happened. And I fully realize that whatever I say, it’ll probably be the difference between my life turning around, or my life turning into a useless pile of black, lifeless ash.

  GARRETT

  I spent my whole life being perfect, refusing to break character. Between my two sisters and me, I was always the one in control. Always the one to do whatever dad told us to do. Whatever my teacher told me to do. I didn't take risks that weren't highly calculated, including my career path. Do I really like being a psychiatrist? At times, yes. But I know the truth… I know that I landed in this field to begin with because of my father, because it's what he always wanted for me. Because he's a media icon in the psychiatric world.

  I didn't want to go that same route, but it wasn't like I veered completely off his chosen path either. Such a good little sheep I am...

  But right now, sitting across from Ethan Shields’ fresh face, and having these dark, sinister thoughts… It's not right; if these thoughts were ever somehow hacked and made public, I'd lose my license to practice faster than it takes to pull the zipper of my pants down.

  Even behind Ethan's fits of frustration and deep, inner rage, it's so obvious that this man is a sweet, beautiful soul. I'm supposed to remain objective in this process; after all, I'm responsible for submitting a report that will more than likely be stringently reviewed by a judge. But from the moment I set eyes on him in my waiting room, I knew he was special. I knew he wasn't like my other clients.

  I don't mind so much that I find him instantly appealing as a human being; his brutal honesty, unfiltered words, and his passion for his daughter are irresistible. That much I can handle. But there's a part that I can't handle, the part that I would lose my job over if anyone knew.

  The fact is, I'm more physically attracted to this man than I've ever felt towards any other man since the day I knew I was gay.

  And that is just straight up horrible news.

  Ethan is adorable and sexy and strong and artistic and soulful and real and... did I mention sexy? How about handsome? Maybe I did, but I don't think I mentioned rugged, or did I?

  Unfortunately, there are three major problems. One, he's damaged. Two, he's not gay, at least not from what I can tell. And three, this man is my client, appointed to me by the county courthouse.

  I can't say I don't feel disgusted with myself right now. Here he is, all vulnerable and relying on me to redeem him, and all I want to do is see him naked. That sounds sicker and sicker the more I think about it, but I really do want to help him too. Maybe that's the worst part, or the scariest part… that I've never wanted to help anybody more in my life than this man right here, right now.

  So the attraction isn't just physical, not even close. That’s slightly comforting to realize. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I really don’t know what the attraction is. The only thing I know is that my reaction inside is completely uncharacteristic of me.

  And most importantly, it completely needs to stop.

  His adorable eyes are overflowing with angst as he talks. "She blows everything out of proportion. I hate that I sound like an angry lunatic, but she's threatening to take away my baby. I don't know how else to feel," he says.

  I fill a plastic cup about halfway with water. "Here, take your time," I reach out and hand him the cup and our fingers accidentally collide. I make a point to hide all expression from my face but shit, my body definitely awakens beneath the surface.

  I should be the one getting treatment right now. His entire world is on the line for him right now, and I'm sitting here getting turned on by him.

  Ugh-fucking-city.

  Ethan looks up at me with those puppy-dog eyes of his. He brushes his stray, slightly too long dark brown bangs away from his line of sight. He unknowingly bites down on his lower lip, takes a sip of water, and says softly, "Thanks, Garrett."

  There's an innocence about him that I can't resist. "I can't be responsible for you drying up right here in my office," I say lightly.

  He chuckles softly and leans back into the soft, plush couch that I bought online.

  He shakes his head as he looks out through my window at the not-so-beautiful view of the manufacturing industrial park that my office is situated in. Not exactly my dream office suite, but I refused to freeload off my dad when he offered me space in his executive office building in downtown San Diego. I had to draw the line somewhere.

  Ethan looks straight at me and says, "My mother and sister always drank.
They still do. My sister used to throw parties when I was in middle school. Her and her friends would be partying and throwing up in our apartment while my mother was off working the late shift at the hospital. Or sometimes I'd be out with my friends, and I'd come home and see my mother sitting in the dark, totally smashed, listening to heavy metal. It was so weird and made me feel so alone. I swore to myself I would never become a drinker. And I basically kept that promise, except for one night. And that was the night that Elizabeth is dead set on using against me, probably for the rest of my life."

  I feel myself getting pissed off inside, angry for whatever he had to go through as a kid, and as an adult. Put simply, my reaction ain’t good, not from a clinical standpoint. I just met Ethan, and already, I find myself siding with him even though every word pouring from his mouth could be a total lie.

  But seriously, I doubt it. A man like him, with those eyes, he doesn't seem capable of lying.

  "So then what happened? Obviously, I read through your file, and I know why you need to be here from the court's perspective. But I want to hear what happened from your side," I say, gripping the arms of my chair in order to ward off the urge I feel to move closer towards him.

  Then I find myself holding onto the chair for dear life as bizarre, forbidden thoughts of Ethan suddenly collapsing in my arms flood my brain. I can only imagine what my father would think if he knew I was thinking these things right now. Talk about losing objectivity.

  Ethan leans forward in his chair and buries his face in his hands. His fingers are long and thick, and he doesn't have a nick on them. There's a tattoo with the name Zoey and some numbers that look like a birthday on the inside of his forearm. He points his eyes towards mine and I wait. Breathless.

  Keep it together, Garrett, I tell myself.

  "I put Zoey to bed that night after we had so much fun together. I made her all of her favorite foods, we made sundaes for dessert, we played for hours, it was amazing. Then, later on, Elizabeth came home from having dinner at her parents and we started getting into it. She started pushing my buttons, told me told me I needed to find a real job instead of watching indie films all night pretending like I was going to be some big shot Hollywood producer someday. She told me the dream was over, and that I needed to step up and be a man, like her dad. At that point, I had two damn beers. Literally two. And that was the most beer I'd had all month, mainly because I was so stressed out about things between us, and I felt trapped. But she said all of that stuff, and I lost it. I threw one of the beer bottles against the wall and glass shattered all over our living room. She looked at me and said I would never see my daughter again," he says. He buries his face back into his hands and mutters, "And now I'm afraid she might be right. About all of it."

  His story wreaks havoc on my gut for some reason, and I believe every word he's saying. I believe that she overreacted and that she probably presented the facts in a distorted manner to the court. But I have to do my due diligence and not let my own biases get in the way of the legal process, if that's even possible at this point. My job is to spend the next eight weeks with this man to sort through all of the information and determine the difference between what is fact and what is fiction. I just hope my mind can face this particular challenge.

  "And what do you think is true?" I ask him, trying to maintain as much outward appearance of professionalism that I can.

  He looks up at me and smiles, but it's more of an insane half grin, the type of smile that says he's been through emotional hell and back already, and that he doesn't know if he can make it any further. "I don't have her family's money. I don't have a career. I don't have a college degree. And I don't have my daughter. I don't know what's true anymore, I'm just afraid," he says.

  I study his eyes as though my life depends on it. Plain and simple, the more he talks, the more I think this man is telling the truth. I can spot bullshit when it's right in front of me, and this isn't it. A judge would never allow me to rule in his favor with such limited information, but still, I can feel it in my gut. This man is getting fucked over, for lack of a more clinical term.

  I let out a deep breath as I look around my office and ponder my next move. I need to stay sane, organized, and appear in control like I always do. I need to appear professional, and in compliance with my industry's professional standards. I need to not feel too much compassion for him, even though I do. And I need to return to some sense of objectivity, and not just completely rely on my gut.

  Because sometimes gut instincts are completely wrong.

  This isn't going to be easy though, that much is true.

  I rotate the white leather band of my smart watch so I can see the time. Our session is over. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach, a feeling I've never experienced at the end of a session with one of my clients, especially a brand new client. It's as though I don't want my time with him to end.

  My heart starts to speed up. This is bad. I should file for an immediate transfer and definitely not finish out these eight weeks. But what would my reason for a transfer be without me looking like a freak? Do I just explain to the judge that I'm overly attracted to my client? That I feel a sense of loyalty to a man I've only known for forty minutes, a loyalty that's stronger than what most lifelong brothers feel for each other? I'm acting like a child, and there's no way I can employ a standard transfer without drumming up a bunch of suspicion at the courthouse. And unfortunately, everything I do in the courthouse stands out even more because of my father, which means every step I take is under constant scrutiny.

  Usually, I know what to say to my clients when time is wrapping up. But for some reason, with Ethan, my next few words come out all wrong. "You understand that I cannot take sides with you or your ex, correct?"

  His eyes snap together. "Do you think I'm lying?" he says.

  This time, I'm the one finding myself with a dry mouth. "I believe you, Ethan. But I need to remain upfront with you. I can only present information in my report that is backed by clear facts."

  "She doesn't have any evidence either. She can't prove that I'm somehow less of a parent than her, just because she has more money, and just because she wasn't forced to drop out of college like me."

  "I get why you're upset, and I don't blame you. I believe you, I can tell you that. But we need to work together over the next eight weeks in order to create a report that reflects what I believe in my heart. In the meantime, you need to keep it really clean-"

  Ethan interrupts me, "I always keep a clean record. I almost never drink. I pay taxes just like you. My biggest guilty pleasure over the last few years has been studying movies after my daughter falls asleep. I always put her first. But everything I did, no matter how good it was, it came with a price from Elizabeth. This isn't fair.”

  He lets out a deep breath and calms himself down enough to point to my door and say lightly, “Do you think Scorsese would have tolerated this level of injustice?"

  I can't fight back a smile. Even when he's mad, and his life is falling apart, I find him head over heels adorable.

  His gaze softens, and he flashes a grin of his own. "That's the first time I've seen you smile," he says.

  I feel suddenly defensive, which I admit is extremely immature and pathetic. "I smile a lot, but professionalism always comes first," I snap quickly.

  His eyes widen. I startled him. He starts to say, "I didn't mean to disrespect-"

  "You weren’t disrespectful. Honestly, you're a breath of fresh air," I find myself muttering like a teenager. I pray I don't sound like I'm flirting with him.

  A breath of fresh air. Gross.

  Maybe I'm not my father's son after all.

  But the sudden rosy color in his cheeks makes it almost impossible for me to regret my lack of professionalism. "Anyways, I can be light too," I say.

  Ethan's eyes narrow as he cocks his head to the side and looks around my office. "Is this your dream job?" he asks.

  My breath gets stuck in my throat for a moment, knowing that
this cuts to the heart of my biggest regret. I try to sound more confident than I actually feel inside. "Life doesn't usually allow for most people to live out their dream jobs."

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest, clearly not satisfied with my answer. "Yeah, that's what I've been told. A lot. Anyways, our session is over, right?"

  But the bigger question is, how did I let this client get to me like this? We both stand up and shake hands. I find myself, for some psychotic reason, not wanting to let go of his warm flesh. I detect a slight dilation of his pupils, and I can't help but wonder if he's reacting in some way too.

  He turns to leave and I can't take my eyes off him. My body just refuses to look the other way. Ethan is simply one big ball of a beautiful mess.

  Finally, he's gone. I can breathe easy again and clear my head.

  Eight sessions, no problem.

  But the fact that I'm locking up my office early and calling it quits shortly after Ethan left tells me otherwise. I tried to concentrate on my work, but I couldn't sit still for a second. I canceled my last appointment, and decided to give myself the rest of the day off.

  As I leave my office, I look at the poster on the back of my door. Funny how he reacted to it. Also funny how Scorsese happens to be his hero too.

  Maybe it's our mutual love of movies. Or his kind heart. Or those sad, lonely eyes that need fixing.

  I can fix those eyes, I think to myself.

  I shake my head hard as I leave my office, like a dog coming back from a walk in the rain trying to shake as many wet drops off as possible. Only I'm trying to shake the thought of Ethan out of my head.

  I head to the mall to buy a new charger for my phone. Heaven forbid I don't have access to my phone for more than three hours; think of all the soul-draining updates I could miss from my family about my father's latest stint in the news or some big time celebrity guest he just landed on his show. Even though I was in the mall for only five minutes, I managed to see pictures of my dad three or four times, either on some TV in the department stores or on some dumb magazine cover. Needless to say, I got out of there as fast as I could, head back into my leased BMW, and drive towards Hillcrest, the only part of San Diego where I feel like I can kind of be myself.