I woke to the sound of my mother laughing and the smell of cinnamon french toast.
I knew that could only mean one thing, so I quickly pulled on the pair of pants I'd left thrown beside my bed on the floor and bounded down the steps.
Just as I'd guessed, my father was seated at the kitchen table, the black suit I almost always saw him wearing still on him. Almost as if he'd felt my presence, he turned toward me and grinned.
In seconds, I moved through the living room and enveloped him in a hug. I wasn't a short girl, not by most standards anyway, but my father towered over me. He was around six foot four and yet he was the nicest man I'd ever known.
Despite how rocky and almost borderline hateful my mother and I's relationship was, my father and I had always been rather close. It was embarrassing to hug my father like I was, hugging him tight and enjoying his deep laughter when I was an adult now, but I didn't care.
I pulled away from him, a grin so wide on my face that I almost worried that my face would split right in half. I noticed my mother was looking at us with a strange look on her face, some sort of look that almost seemed sad, but as soon as we made eye contact, she smiled at me and gestured for me to sit down at the table.
She hovered over my father and I, dumping her homemade french toast onto our plates. It was my father's favorite and I certainly wasn't going to complain. I was just so happy to have my father home – despite not really knowing how long the return would last – that I would've eaten even spaghetti, even though it was my least favorite food.
“So, Dad,” I paused, so glad to be able to say that again, “How was Tokyo?”
That initiated the conversation we always had upon his return, one of him retelling us of his adventures around the world while my mother and I sat by listening to him and trying to pretend as though what we did was at least interesting enough to share.
My father's face always lit up when he spoke about the things he saw and the people he met, and when I'd been younger, I'd just been so entrapped by his retelling of his adventures that I'd even wanted to go to college to be get some sort of job where I could always be away from home, seeing new places. My mother had laughed at that and my father had shook his head, and sometime after that, the dream had died.
I missed my father every time he was gone, often feeling like the house was too empty without him, but I knew that he was happy and I didn't have any right to take that away from him. He was a good father by all standards, and even my mother seemed to change entirely and take on a different personality whenever he was home.
It wasn't that she was fake around him, it was more like she could only be herself when he was around. I loved the way they were around one another and I always hoped that, if I ever found a way to figure myself out, that I'd somehow stumble upon the same sort of relationship they had.
I listened to my father talk, eating my way through at least half a dozen pieces of french toast. He occasionally paused to make sure we were still listening, and of course, we were.
When we were all finished, my father was just finishing telling us about how large the Imperial Palace had been and how breathtaking Tokyo was.
My mother and my father shared a look, one that I clearly wasn't invited to understand, before my mother stuck her hands in the sink and began the task of washing the many dishes that came with making her homemade cinnamon french toast.
My father led me into the living room and sat down, patting the cushion beside him. Before we'd even stepped into the living room, I knew something was up and I had really hoped that the conversation could at least hold off until I felt like shitting on the good mood I'd gotten just from seeing my father sitting at the kitchen table.
I took the seat he intended, sighing as I sat down. “I know what you're going to say, Dad.” I told him, knowing full and well that my mother told him about how I was doing. I just wasn't entirely sure of to what extent, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.
He smiled, a small one full of understanding – something I always loved about him, and probably one of the biggest reasons why I got along with him better than my mother. “Are you struggling?”
I thought about his question for a moment, before shrugging. “Not any more than anyone else in the world, I guess.” It seemed like an appropriate enough response, seeing as I just couldn't bring myself to tell him that, yes, I was struggling. I was struggling to keep my head above the water that only seemed to be rising the more I tried, despite how trying to better myself was supposed to lower that water and make it easier for me to breathe.
I couldn't tell him that sometimes I choked on that water, like it was filling up my body and taking all my breath away, leaving behind only the pain I tried my hardest not to feel.
He was silent, pulling me into a hug before simply replying, “You've always been so strong, North.”
I wanted to laugh at that and tell him that I was nothing but a slave to my cravings, but I simply hugged him back, relishing in the care I could almost feel radiating off of him. “Thanks, Dad.”
I think he meant to say more and make it more serious, but we ended up sitting in silence and flipping through my baby book, occasionally laughing a bit at a particularly ridiculous baby picture. When we got through the whole book, my father shut it and set it in his lap, looking over at me.
“I miss little North.”
“What, big adult North not good enough for you?” I joked, realizing that using adult was a bit of a stretch.
“I couldn't be more proud of you.”
His words hit me straight in the gut, all the jokes I'd been holding back evaporating when his words hit my ears, seeming to bounce around in my head. For once, good words would be stuck in my head.
“At least someone is,” I mumbled.
“Hey,” I looked at him. “You know your mother loves you, right? She wants you to get better and she wants things to go well for you. She's proud of you, too, honey, she really, really is.”
I simply shrugged, pulling out another baby book and beginning to flip through it. I knew we had meant to talk about how fucked up I was and how my mother wanted me to get better – to be better – but I was more content just sitting with my father and flipping through the good memories I still had, and he seemed to understand that.
~~~~~~~~~~
West stopped by to pick me up for the carnival he insisted that we needed to go to, and I awkwardly stood by as my father pushed his way to the door. He'd shook West's hand and told him that he better be treating me good or else, and before I could butt in and say that things between West and I weren't quite like that, West had said, “I'll be good to her.”
I was still dwelling on those words, even as we stood at the entrance of the carnival, the various shades of reds and yellow on the entrance sign making my eyes sore.
We finally walked in and I tried to swallow down the nauseous feeling already invading my body. Not only were the rides awful and always made me sick, but I'd always hated carnivals since a bad experience as a child.
“Your dad seems nice.” West said nonchalantly, buying a wrist band at the counter for me and refusing to take the money I tried to pay him in return for it.
“He's really great,” I agreed, once again trying to stuff the money into his hands. “You barely make minimum wage, take the damn money, West.”
“You make minimum wage, too,” He pointed out. “Besides, your company is enough.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please take the money.” I held it out again, practically shoving it in his face.
“Will you just let me be a gentleman?”
I raised my eyebrows. “What did my father say to you?”
“Nothing. Is it so wrong for me to want to be kind?”
I rolled my eyes again, heading towards the cotton candy stand and intending to get a big wad of the sugary stuff. That plan was quickly interrupted when a clown stepped out from behind the stand, a bag of popcorn in his hands. His shoes were the regular huge red kind and he was wearing the sort of polka dotted outfit that they always wore, his face so caked in make up I briefly wondered if he had any real face at all.
I told myself to take deep breaths, in and out, in and out, but I couldn't force my legs to move as they were rooted to the ground. It wasn't a feeling I had very often, but standing there, merely a few feet away from the clown, I felt real fear.
I prayed that the clown would walk away without seeing me and he almost did, until West called my name. “North?”
I couldn't even turn to look at him, I was too busy staring at the clown who had turned to look at me when West talked. The clown appeared to be analyzing me and I worried that he could almost smell the fear on me, I mean, those things were fucking creepy.
He raised his eyebrows and stepped forward, the movement terrifying me to the point where I suddenly felt like throwing up and it somehow spurred me into motion. I quickly spun around, ready to run towards the exit and get the hell out of dodge, but I ended up walking into West who steadied me with a gentle hand on my arm.
“You okay?” He asked, looking between me and the clown.
I couldn't see the clown anymore, but I was hyper aware of him still standing by the cotton candy stand, one step closer to me than he should've been.
“Ma'am, are you alright?” The clown suddenly spoke and I knew that West felt me jump, for he pulled me against his chest and wrapped his arms around my body, making me wonder if I could mold myself into him if he squeezed hard enough.
I felt West shake his head and then I heard the sound of the clown's oversized shoes treading through the grass as he walked away.
Even though I rationally knew the clown was gone, I still stayed like that, in West's arms and surrounded by his masculine scent. He was warm, warmer than me at least, and I found myself leaning even closer to him and wrapping my arms around him in return.
“Are you alright?” He whispered, his lips brushing my forehead.
I nodded, about to step back and out of his arms when he tightened his arms for a moment, barely noticeable but obvious enough for me to know he wanted to me to stay like I was. “I might be a little terrified of clowns.” I muttered back drily.
I felt him chuckle against me, the vibrations from his chest making my stomach twist into knots that I tried my hardest to ignore. “I figured that.” He replied back, resting his chin on the top of my head.
We sort of stood there in silence, people passing by us and occasionally looking at us to make sure we were okay. Sure, I'd embarrassed myself and I'd had to admit my rather serious fear of clowns, but being wrapped in West's arms almost made it seem less awful.
He didn't seem willing to let go just yet, so I simply stood there, my arms around him and my chest against his. His hands were knotted in the back of my waist, his thumb occasionally brushing my waist when he moved his hands.
More than all of that, it struck me in that moment that I felt safe. Really and truly safe, despite being at a carnival filled with dangerous rides and the very thing I feared.