Thinking Everything So Simple

I take his hand in mine because I know he wants me to.

"When can I see you again?" I ask. We are walking on the path that runs along the length of the canal, and the sun is slowly setting at our backs. Some kids are having soccer practice in the field to our left, while cars whiz by on the street beyond. It's chilly and it looks like it might rain or not, you can never tell, and he's wearing a red cap I've never seen before, which matches a jacket we'd given to him as a birthday gift five years ago.

He takes a drag of his cigarette. "I don't know, Peaches. Next week?" He exhales. "I want to say 'whenever you want,' but I don't think that's gonna happen."

I resist the urge to pull away, to escape those long tendrils of smoke that I used to pretend were mystical dragons. "What if what I want is next week?"

He laughs.

"Why not tomorrow, though?" I ask, hating the whine in my voice.

This time he pulls his hand out of mine and shoves it into his jacket pocket. I wait so long for his answer that I don't think it's coming. I watch him take a quick drag, his face unreadable.

"I don't know why," he replies and pulls on his cigarette again. The cherry flares for one long moment then fades. "Since when do I make the rules. I don't get a say. Nobody cares what I want."

"Well, as long as you're not bitter," I snap before I can stop myself, but he doesn't say anything and I'm glad. Or mad. I almost want him to react.

We continue our slow meandering down the canal, his free hand stuffed in his pocket while mine hang at my sides. I watch the canoes approach then past us as they glide down the canal toward the ocean. The paddlers move with practiced, synchronized speed, and long lines of water trail the boats and radiate before they disappear.

"She's never going to make it easy, you know," he says. "I told you I'd leave her and I did. I did what I said I'd do, that's all."

"Why would she? She doesn't even like you. Besides, if it were easy then everyone would do it." I pause. "Even you'dve done it a long time ago."

He shakes his head. "They'd do it anyway because they're miserable."

I stop. "Is that what you are?" I ask, stung.

He takes a last, lingering pull on his smoke and flicks it into the canal. "I hate these fucking trees. Those fucking pods always stick to my shoes." He checks under this foot. "Shit."

"Just scrape it on a rock. Like that rock wall. Just scrape your shoe on the edge." I hate these monkey pod trees, too, for the exact same reason, but I don't tell him that. They line the canal path at regular intervals, and are almost unavoidable. It's nearly impossible to ride a skateboard down these sidewalks without eating it. Plus the pods look like enormous, oozing scabs that someone peeled and let float down to the ground. They look like they'd get blown away by a strong breeze, but they are heavy and sticky and disgusting. When I look back at him, he's already lighting up another cigarette.

"I can measure my sorrows in the cigarettes I smoke," he mumbles. "Maybe I am miserable. Would you still love me if I were?"

I stuff my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and a man pushing a baby in one of those jogging strollers passes by. "It seems I am doomed to love you no matter what," I say.

He scoffs. "Lucky me."

"Hey, I'm the only person you've got right now, asshole. You really think sarcasm helps?" I don't know why I keep talking to him. I don't know why I haven't just bolted from this tree, away from him, away from this conversation.

"What do you know about it, huh? You're just a kid. Think you're special. Think you know everything. Thinking everything is so simple." His hand is now out of his pocket and he's pointing his finger at me like he's telling me where to go. His voice is gruff but he isn't yelling at me, which somehow makes it worse. "What the fuck you know, anyway. Fucking kid."

My eyes sting and I hate him for it. I look away and see that the canoes are almost to the ocean. They are specks on the horizon, parallel to each other, searching for the freedom and uncertainty of the open sea.

He sighs. "It's not your fault, Peaches. Come on."

He walks up from behind me and rests his free hand on my shoulder. I wince. He smells like cigarettes and mint and I want to cry. "I'm stressed out and lost my temper. This whole thing sucks." He clears his throat and his voice softens. "I thought once I left her, I'd have all this freedom. Life would be better. And it is. Small kine."

I can no longer see the canoes or their paddlers. They must have turned the bend.

"You know I love you, Peaches. Maybe you can come over more now that I got my own place, huh?"

I turn toward him and pull my body out from his grasp. My Vans crunch against the monkey pods as my hands bunch into fists.

"How can you be miserable," I yell at him. "You said it yourself: you left her. How can you be miserable if you got what you wanted? What about me? It's fucking laughable that you're miserable."

Except I don't actually say any of that out loud. "I gotta get home," I tell him.

He sighs and puts out his cigarette with his shoe. He leans forward and wraps me in a minty, smokey hug and kisses the top of my head. "I love you, Peaches."

My chest hurts and my eyes burn. "I hate when you call me that," I say.

He chuckles. "I know."

I wrap an arm around his waist and squeeze. "I love you, too, Dad." And before I can cry, I turn and walk away, back the way we came.