[AustinCarlile] Live Forever

[AustinCarlile] Live Forever [ChapterTwentyTwo]

Nodding my head, I tilt my head to the side, looking at him, our fingers intertwined, slowly swinging back and forth as we aimlessly walk around the parking lot. “Her name is Leila.” I'm assuming that he doesn’t know about my brother, that he would have said something, anything, to hint that he knew or asked a question that would lead to me telling him all about it. He must have heard me talking about my father, the very end; he must be bothered by it, his relationship with both his parents so strong, so envious of. “If you want to know about him, my father, all you have to do is ask.”

Flustered, Austin forces a smile to tug at his lips, an innocent smile, like a little child who just got caught stealing a cookie without permission, before having dinner. “He left?” Stopping in his tracks, no longer walking, he tugs at my hand, signaling for me to stop as well, which I do, standing in front of him, facing him, and I nod my head as an answer, shrugging my shoulders. “I, uh, overheard you say something about helping him pack his stuff?”

Laughing softly, I nod my head, knowing that this was coming, that this whole idea of him asking me to help him pack up all his stuff sounds so horrible, and it was, but I'm better off without him. Everyone is better off without him, he was an okay father, he provided for us, he didn’t punish us strictly, but he wasn’t a good father, nothing outstanding, he didn’t really want anything to do with our lives, and it’s better now that he’s gone, he’s scum, I hate everything about him.

“I had to be like eight years old. One night, I heard someone moving around in my mom’s room and I knew she was out with her friends, she used to do that once a month before he left. So I went in there, knowing that it was him, and he must have just gotten home from work. He had a suitcase on his bed and I had asked him where he was going on his business trip now. All he said was the other side of the country and then asked if I wanted to help him. And before that he didn’t really ask to spend time with me, so I jumped at the invitation, I was so happy that I was spending what I thought was quality time with him. It just ended up that he was the asshole I thought he was.”

His face is stone, emotionless, like he’s taking in everything that I said, thinking about it, going over everything that I said, and I realize that I had crossed my arms at one point during my rant, and I unfold them, letting my arms rest against my side, knowing what horrible body language I was sending off. I hate my father, he doesn’t even deserve to be called that, he isn’t a father; he’s the sperm, that’s all he is to me, the sperm that gave me life.

I don’t think that I should have thrown all of this at him at once, but I knew he was going to ask eventually, I want him to know about me, I want to open up to him, I want him to be the one that gets me to tear down whatever walls I unknowingly build up. “Um, yeah.” I'm nervous, he isn’t saying anything, but his grip on my hand doesn’t loosen, he isn’t letting go of me, and in a way it’s calming, to know that he’s not leaving, that he won’t toss me aside simply because I don’t have everything his other girlfriends have had.

He always says that relationships with parents are important, but I'm more for relationships with mothers, I think that mothers are amazing, simply because my mother is my best friend, I know there are horrible mothers out there, my fans have told me personal stories, I'm aware that not all relationships with mothers are good, but when they are they need to be cherished. If anything, that’s good, that’s what he believes in, I simply don’t see the good in a father who walks out.

“I'm not going to walk out, let alone ask you to help me leave.” Knitting my eyebrows together, I tilt my head to the side, unsure of what he means by it, knowing what it means on the surface, but I don’t want to know the superficial meaning of it, I want to know what that means to him, what that will mean to me. “I know that this isn’t the same, it’s not even close, and I know that you’re going to think I'm insane for trying to compare the two, but when my mom died, I don’t know. I put up the walls that you have. In all the interviews and whenever people write about meeting me, I don’t talk about losing my mom. When they tell me that they lost their mother, I sympathize, I know what it feels like, but I don’t like talking about it.

“You don’t like talking about your dad. That makes sense. What he did was horrible. Why anyone wouldn’t want to be a part of your life is beyond me. You’re amazing. You’ve accomplished so much and helped so many people. Why people think I enjoy when they talk about my mother’s death, but twist it so they can say it inspires them, or why people like to ask me about her is beyond me. It’s stupid. I love my mother; I really do, with all my heart. But, talking about her makes it real.”

I don’t cry when talking about the sperm, there was never really a reason to, he means nothing to me, if I saw him walking down the street one day I wouldn’t know who he is and I pray that he would walk right by as if I still don’t exist in his life. The guys like to say that I don’t know how to cry, that I only cry when it has to do with Adam, because that’s where all my tears go, I don’t have enough tears to cry for anyone else, but they're wrong; the water fills my eyes when he talks about his mom as soon as his eyes shine with adoration for his mother.

Wiping my finger under my eye quickly before any tears could escape, pushing them away, I run a hand through my hair, noticing that I stop at the end of it, at the same place where I would pull from in high school, where I would pull from when Adam was in the hospital, but I let my hand fall back down to my side, sliding it into the pocket of my jeans. “We don’t talk about it for different reasons, but, um, you're not crazy, I get what you were trying to say.”

If he can knock down these walls for me, I can do the same for him.

He needs to meet someone.