Philip was in his bedroom currently, laying on his stomach on his bed, propped up on his elbows, computer in front of him. It was dark in the room and the light from the screen was hurting his eyelids a considerable amount, but he was too lazy to get up to hit the lightswitch. He only had one last paragraph to type, anyway.
The headphones over Philip's ears were playing some upbeat love song that consisted of a twenty-something-year-old girl with amazing vocals belt out something about dreamy eyes and messy hair. When she reached the chorus, Philip smiled, mind automatically flitting to Theodosia Burr.
He'd only sat at lunch with her for one day and he was already nearly infatuated. She was so cheery and exciting to be around. Her smile was contagious, her confidence was radiant and literally attractive. Philip actually had a hard time staying away from her whenever he saw her. She was hilarious, but not at anyone else's expense.
And not that it really mattered much to Philip, but she was also drop-dead gorgeous. Her dark skin that reminded Philip of everything gentle and cozy about a drizzly day, her gestural hands that he had yet to hold, the sparkle in her eye that Philip had never seen absent...
He buried his face in his pillow, beaming ear-to-ear and giggling giddily, then pushing aside his computer and rolling around on his bed, hugging his pillow to his chest.
Wow, he couldn't wait to go to school on Monday and see her.
After a couple more minutes of dreamily gazing off into space and thinking about Theo, Philip sobered up and forced himself to finish his paragraph and go to bed. He shut the lid to his laptop and rolled off the bed to set it on his desk, then gently took off the headphones that covered his ears.
With the music turned off, Philip was wildly aware of the silence that filled the house. It was late enough that all his siblings were already tucked in and dreaming, but Philip listened acutely and wasn't surprised to hear footsteps downstairs.
Dad... Philip thought amusedly to himself. Never gets any sleep.
The smile died on his face, however, when he heard a choked sob and the sound of something small clinking off the countertop and rattling to the floor. Was that a bottle cap?!
The door was open and Philip was rushing down the stairs so fast that he barely touched the ground, running down the stairs two or three at a time.
"Dad?" Philip slid into the kitchen. His eyes were wild, wide with worry and he bent down to scoop up the crimped cap that belonged to the bottle of Sam Adams that his father was tipping back.
"You're drinking?" Philip blurted, only realizing a half a second later, when his father shot him an eye-roll that it was an obviously stupid question to ask. "I mean - you're drinking. What happened?"
"Nothing, Pip, go to bed," his father mumbled dully, letting loose strands of his hair dangle in his face, blocking the eye-contact that Philip was attempting to make with him.
"Dad..." Philip struggled to express his worry. His dad seemed to be almost crying, he was staring off into space, his hands were resting on the table, completely still. The last time he'd seen his father so... desolate - well, it had been long before Mr. John Laurens walked into his father's life. "...No," was all Philip could muster up.
"I said, go to bed, Pip," his dad muttered, resting his head in his hand and facing away from his son. "I'm fine."
Philip breathed out a nervous laugh. Like hell his dad was 'fine.' "Dad, you're not fine," Philip soothed. He pulled up a stool and sat next to his father at the counter, wrapping an arm gently over his shoulder. "Tell me what happened."
His dad turned to him, the trace of a melancholy smile barely lining his face. "It's really nothing, Philip," his dad said, in the gentlest voice Philip had ever heard from him. "Just... tired, I guess, that's all."
"Since when do you get 'tired,' Dad?" Philip laughed in disbelief. "And why are you up, awake, drinking if you're tired?"
His dad smiled marginally wider, though it was still tinged with sadness. "Okay, okay, touché. I'm just thinking, then. Just...thinking."
"Again, drinking's not going to help with that either," Philip responded dryly. "Since when do you prefer beer over coffee?"
"Since never," his dad replied off-handedly.
"Unless you want to lose inhibition," Philip accused. "So what happened that you want to forget?"
"Sometimes I wonder why you're so smart, and then I remember who raised you," his dad chuckled, taking another swig from the brown-tinted bottle.
"You're stalling. And trying to distract me," Philip deadpanned, though he was smiling at the comment.
"If I wanted to distract you, I'd be giving you the drink," his father responded off-handedly.
Philip laughed, taking the bottle from his dad and swallowing a mouthful, then handing it back. His father watched him with a tired, yet amused smirk, taking back the bottle with an eyebrow raised.
"I'll stop asking, Dad," Philip finally said, letting the fizz and tang of the drink sizzle over his taste buds. "If you want to forget, I won't remind you."
"'Mm-kay, Pippy," was all his dad said in response, eyes adamantly focused on the bottle in his hand. He rotated it, moving his hand around the glass to stare at the logo on the label.
In an attempt to lighten the mood or at least talk about something, anything, Philip, glancing at the label as well, pointed out, "I didn't know you liked Sam Adams."
"I don't. It's pretty gross as far as beer's concerned," his dad mumbled. "I like whiskey, though."
"That's ironic," Philip muttered, under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Oh, what? Nothing."
"Mm-hmm," his father looked at him briefly before tipping back the bottle again and swallowing once, twice, three times and carelessly putting the bottle back onto the counter, where it tipped, rolling over the granite. Distracted by the distress on his father's face, Philip only noticed the other empty bottle when the one his father had just downed clinked against it.
"Wait, that was your second bottle?" Philip's eyebrows shot up. "Da-ad! You have work tomorrow morning! Not to mention you have no tolerance."
His father let out another laugh, though it bordered more on a distracted giggle. "Philly, I'll be fine. And it wasn't my second."
"What are you talkin' about," Philip gestured to the counter. "And are you that drunk from two Sam Adams'?"
"Three, actually," his dad buried his head in his arms. His voice was muffled when he added, "Check the sink, Pippy."
Philip stood and looked over to the sink, where another bottle lay on its side. He sighed. "Okay, first of all, where did the nickname 'Pippy' come from? And second--"
"It's short for your name, silly," his dad mumbled. "'Pippy' is short for 'Philip.'"
"Actually, 'Pippy' and 'Philip' are the same number of syllables, so it's really not."
"You know, I'm glad we disagree on stuff like this," his dad lifted his head to look at Philip. Wow, did he look like a mess. Looking at him closely, Philip could see the exhaustion prominent on his features.
"Wait, okay, what?"
"I mean, argue about the li'l things, you know?" his dad slurred. "But we're both still best friends."
"Dad, whaddaya mean?" Philip sat down next to his father again, resting one of his hands on his dad's shoulder.
His father lifted his head slightly. "Not like Jackie 'n' Frances, you know?" he mumbled. "They aren't as buddy-buddy as we are."
Philip laughed as his father's diction, though he was confused. "What do you mean, 'Jackie?'" Philip wondered aloud, putting the pieces together. "You mean John? Frances Laurens' dad?"
"Yeah," his father responded airily. "Who else would I be talking about?"
"Uh..." Philip opened his mouth, then closed it. "Never mind."
His dad gave him a superior look. "That's what I thought."
"I... didn't know you were thinking," Philip sighed. Before his father could say anything to that comment, he added, "I didn't know Frances and her dad were... rocky."
"Yeah, they had a bit of a argument... guess they're kinda confused at the moment about feelings 'n' stuff..."
"Well, it's good that Mr. Laurens talked to you about it," Philip offered.
His dad buried his head back in his arms and mumbled, "I guess."
"Dad, you're being honest with each other. That's a great way to stabilize your relationship."
"Or end it," his dad frowned. "I... I guess I broke up with him."
Philip froze. No! "You did what?! What do you mean, you guess?"
"He was having trouble with Frances, Pippy, what was I supposed to do?"
"What?!" Philip gave his father a look. "Maybe help him with the problem instead of leaving him to deal with it by himself?"
"No no, Pip, I did. I was the problem. By breaking up with him, I was helping him."
The fuck? Philip really wished his dad was completely sober. He took a deep breath. A long, slow, deep yoga breath. "Dad. What are you talking about," he demanded, voice unintentionally forceful.
His dad didn't even look at him. "John told me," he paused briefly, "that he thought that Frances thought that she was getting replaced by me in John's life."
"What?" Philip narrowed his eyes.
"Philip..." his dad sighed. "...and so, I broke up with him. Told him that I wasn't worth breaking his relationship with his daughter. I just want him to be happy with her. With himself. I know he couldn't live with himself if Frances was mad at him."
"Dad... this isn't okay," Philip protested softly. "You were so happy! Why would you throw that away?"
"If Frances isn't okay with it, then... who am I to create tension between John and his child?"
Philip sighed angrily. "Frances. Fuckin' Frances. What is her problem?"
"Philip," his dad reprimanded. "Son, it's fine."
"Don't call me - never mind. Look, dad, it's definitely not fine. I'm going to talk to her." Philip got off the stool and started to stalk off.
"Philip, please... don't..." his father turned around to look at him.
"Don't what, dad?" He didn't want to turn around. He could feel angry, hot blood coursing through his veins. He wasn't mad at his father, though.
"Just... be responsible," was all his dad murmured.
"Right, dad," Philip said bitterly, as he strode off back up the stairs to his room. "Get some rest, okay?"
Back in his room, Philip sat on his bed, wallowing in his frustration, his disbelief, his anger. How could Frances not see how happy her father was with his boyfriend? Why couldn't she let people be happy? First Theo, then her own father?
She was being so selfish. Unbelievably selfish. Philip flopped down against his pillow. He heard his father trudge upstairs to his bedroom, sighing.
That settled it. His father was no longer happy, no longer glowing. And it was Frances' fault.
Wow, he couldn't wait to go to school on Monday and see her.