The Man Who Lived Again

7

Despite her sarcasm, she leans in to pull me into a long hug. She sighs as we part, and okay, fine, it's nice to see her.

'Don't let this inflate your ego, but I've missed you,' she says.

'And I don't totally hate that you're here,' I reply, and we both laugh.

'It's a bit of an oxymoron, to be totally honest,' Livvy continues as she kicks her shoes off at the bottom of the staircase. 'The only reason I came is because I knew you were here, so I wanted to be your moral support. If you'd not come home for the weekend, I wouldn't have bothered to visit.'

She glances towards the upstairs landing.

'I'm guessing he's asleep, or hungover.' She pauses. 'Probably both, actually.'

'Bingo!' I reply with fake cheer.

'You should've called if you were alone last night,' Livvy replies as I follow her into Dad's living room. 'I would've rescued you.'

I shrug. 'It's alright; some friends ended up picking me up from the station and we hung out for a bit.'

Livvy, who's now sprawled across the sofa as she twirls her blonde hair around her finger, scans my face. Her dark blue eyes narrow.

Here we go.

'Friends, or friend?' She wiggles her eyebrows. 'You better have met some rich, dashing London stranger who loves you so much he's followed you home, and you spent last night losing your v-card in a night of passion and–'

'Shut up,' I interrupt, then shove her feet off the sofa.

She yelps, then lifts her legs back up onto the chair. 'Okay, okay, I get it; no virginity jokes.' She rolls her eyes. 'In all seriousness, which friends?'

'Aiden,' I offer.

'Huh, I didn't realise he was multiple people.' She sits up with a melodramatic groan. 'I literally don't care about yours and Zack's thing. That's Dad.'

'Preston,' I correct her. 'And we're not a thing. We don't have a thing.'

'So he was there, then?'

Shit. I landed myself in that one.

I grab a cushion from underneath her legs, then throw it at her cocky little face. Her reaction is to laugh, which is a huge improvement from what would've happened if I'd done that two years ago. She would've screamed the house down. It's the small wins, right?

Dad eventually wakes up at around one o'clock, and he's as miserable as ever, but at least I have Livvy to split the frustration with. We have to wean him off visiting the pub again, and end up compromising with a promise that we'll have some drinks with him in the house.

In case it's not yet obvious, Dad has something of a drinking problem.

Livvy has gone by three o'clock, and I'm left to fend for myself in the living room while Dad watches a rugby game I have zero interest in. In my head, I'm counting down the hours until tomorrow's release. We're talking literal counting–it's five-thirty, so I've got sixteen and a half hours until Mum rescues me with a lift to her house.

Dad and I have exhausted all conversation topics, namely how uni is going and what he's been up to since I've been in London (spoiler: going to the pub), and so we've been sitting in silence for at least an hour. When he finally breaks it, I desperately wish he hadn't.

'How's your mother?'

There are a couple of ways I could approach answering this question. I could respond with an emotionless fine, or I could say I've not spoken to her yet. I could even try to change the subject and hope it won't be obvious. The trouble is that I've tried all that before, and each time, it's ended in disaster. He always finds a way to turn it into a disaster.

Ideally, I'd love to say nothing, stand up, leave the house, walk forty minutes to Cardiff Central, and catch the first train to London. Sadly, that's a total non-option.

In the end, I settle on the classic, 'fine.'

He scoffs.

Here we go.

From where I'm sitting on the long sofa at the back of the room, I can only see Dad's side profile, but it's enough. He's shaking his head, a can of cider in his hand as he rests it on his stomach. He's due a shave.

'Have you met the new neighb–'

'She still friends with that man from the school?' he interrupts, and that's the subject change option nuked.

'Yeah.'

Just friends, the same as they've been since I was a literal infant, I silently add, knowing there's no point making that definition aloud.

He scoffs again, and anyone would guess he didn't bring this situation on himself. It ceases to amaze me how men always feel so attacked by the consequences of their own actions.

'She acted so upset when things ended between us,' Dad continues as if I wasn't there at the time, and it's an interesting way of phrasing when I cheated on her. 'Wouldn't think that now, would you? It was fake. All fake.'

I bite my tongue, despite the urge to scream at him. He turns to me, and his eyes are droopy, his jaw lax. He might as well have drunk slapped across his forehead.

He juts his cider can towards me. 'She's going off with her new man like nothing happened, as if the twenty years we had together means sod all. Don't trust her, Mia.' He scoffs. Again. 'Take my word for it, okay? Your mother's a lying bitch.'

I can't do this–No, I refuse to do this.

'Oh, fuck off, Dad.'

The words have fallen from my mouth before I'm even aware of thinking them, but frankly, I'm glad. I've always kept my mouth shut when he goes on these rants, but I can't do it anymore. I won't.

'Don't speak to me like–'

'You fucked up, Dad! Accept it!' I yell, and I'm on my feet, adrenaline racing through my blood. 'This has all happened because of your affair, and the only reason you give a shit about what Mum's doing is because you don't have anyone, because the woman you cheated on her with had the sense to dump you, as has every other woman you've gone near since.'

I inhale sharply and Dad's blue eyes are darting around my face, clearly perplexed by the fact that his constant jibing has finally made me snap.

'At least they've all had a way out. You'll never not be my Dad.'

With that, I leave the room without so much as a glance back in his direction.