Chapter 27: Ricky
The engine of a car I didn't recognize was idling in our driveway, a low, expensive hum that sounded like a personal insult to my van. I stood by the front window, the curtain pulled back just enough to see the sleek, silver sedan. It looked like success. It looked like a clean break. It looked like Sam.
"Ricky, please," Mom whispered from the kitchen doorway. She was twisting a dish towel in her hands, her face a map of anxiety. "He drove five hours. He just wants to talk. It’s your birthday week, and he’s trying."
"He’s five months too late for 'trying,' Mom," I said, my voice like flint.
The front door opened—Mom must have left it unlocked—and there he was. Sam. He looked exactly the same, which was the worst part. He wore the same kind of ironed button-down he used to wear to my soccer games before he stopped showing up. He looked like the "Dad" from a commercial, not a guy who had detonated his family and moved into a condo with a woman half Mom’s age.
"Hey, Rodrick," he said, using my full name like we were in a board meeting. He stepped into the foyer, his eyes scanning the modest living room with a hint of pity that made my teeth ache. "You’ve... grown. Happy birthday, son."
"It’s Ricky now," I snapped, stepping into the center of the room. I kept my arms crossed, my boots planted firmly on the carpet. "And the birthday was two days ago. You missed the party. Not that you were invited."
Sam winced, but he kept that calm, "reasonable" look on his face. The look that used to make me feel like I was the crazy one. "I know I’ve been distant. Things got... complicated. But I’m here now. I want to make amends. I want to be part of your life again."
"Why? Did the new life lose its shine? Did you realize that a condo in the city is a little quiet without the kids you abandoned?"
"Ricky, don't be cruel," Mom pleaded, but I didn't look at her.
"I’m not being cruel, I’m being honest," I said, stepping toward him. "You don't get to walk out on us, leave Mom to handle the move, leave Georgie to wonder why his dad doesn't call a lot, and then show up with a 'Happy Birthday' and expect a hug. You traded us in, Sam. You don't get a refund."
Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I made mistakes. I’m human."
"I'm human too. My feelings matter, all of our feelings matter."
But I’m still your father, and I want to help you. I heard you’re in a band? Rising Moon? I could help you get better equipment. A new amp, maybe a better van—"
"Keep your money," I spat. The mention of the band—the one thing that was mine, the one thing I built in the wreckage he left—felt like a violation. "I don't want a 'sorry' amp."
"I just want to make it up to you."
"Look, I don't want a bribe."
"Son, I'm not trying to bribe you."
"You think you can just buy your way back into the credits of my life? It doesn't work like that."
"I'm trying to be the bigger person here, Ricky," Sam said, his voice finally taking on that edge of frustration I remembered.
"That's the problem! You’re always the 'bigger person' in your own head. You’re the hero of your own story, but in ours? You’re the guy who left. You’re the reason Mom cries when she thinks no one is looking. You’re the reason we’re in this town."
I felt a presence behind me and glanced back. Georgie was standing at the top of the stairs, clutching the railing. He looked small, his eyes wide and filled with a confusing mix of longing and fear.
Sam saw him too. "Georgie. Hey, buddy. Come down here."
Georgie took a tentative step, but I stepped into his line of sight. "He’s staying up there, Sam. He doesn't need your 'buddy' talk today."
"You can't keep me from my family." Sam said, his face reddening.
"I'm not keeping you from anything. I’m showing you the door," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "You want to make amends? Go back to your new life and stay there. Leave us alone. We’re finally figuring out how to be a family without you, and frankly? We’re doing a better job of it."
"Ricky, enough!" Mom cried, her voice breaking.
"No, Mom! It’s not enough!" I turned to her, the angst and the hurt of the last six months finally pouring out. "He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to feel good about himself today. If he wants to be a father, he should have stayed when it was hard. Not come back when he’s bored."
I turned back to Sam. He looked smaller now, the silver-sedan energy fading into the reality of a son who saw right through him.
"Get out," I said, pointing to the door. "Happy birthday to me. Now leave."
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but he looked at my face—the eyeliner, the boots, the sheer, cold wall of my gaze—and he realized there was no "Ice Queen" act here. This was real. This was the son he’d made.
He turned without another word and walked out. The front door clicked shut, and a moment later, that expensive engine hummed away, fading into the distance until the house was quiet again.
Mom sank onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. Georgie stayed on the stairs, silent as a ghost.
I stood in the middle of the foyer, my chest heaving, feeling the ghost of the confrontation vibrating in my bones. I felt like I’d just played the loudest, darkest set of my life. My heart was heavy, a jagged rock in my chest, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a mistake.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I didn't call Sam. I didn't check for a text from my old life.
I texted Roxie.
He came over. I told him to go. It was loud.
A second later, she replied.
Good. Proud of you. Meet me at the car wash in 20? I’ll bring the good eyeliner.
I let out a long, shaky breath. The dad drama wasn't over—it probably never would be—but as I headed for the garage to start the van, I realized I wasn't an outsider anymore. I was a guy who knew exactly where he stood, and exactly who was standing there with him.