Chapter 5: Isamu

I may have a slightly societally-manifestedfetish for men who are good with cars. I've come to this conclusion as I watch John swing under a van with ease—his t-shirt riding above his waist and a little bit of his happy trail flashes—I know it isn't the bite of the North Carolina autumn that's blooming goose bumps across my body.

It's not like I'm blind. John's hot. Like, big and powerful with a side of gorgeous and hunky. But I'm kind of romantic and John is kind of an emotionally constipated, straight, asshole. But I can still appreciate the eye candy.

"Gunnar, I really don't know if that's worth it with the milage," he says, muffled from under the vehicle.

Gunnar, the car salesman, who John apparently knows from before his university days, just groans. "John, I'm not cutting you a deal. Go ask Davis, his boss isn't a tool."

"His vans are also shittier. That's why the deals are better." John slides out from under the car. "I'd have to replace an entire engine just to get out of those pieces of shit off the lot."

John and Gunnar have a stare down before Gunnar finally throws his hands up in the air.

"It's my commission, John."

"Yeah? You got a lot of folks ‘round here looking to buy Sprinter vans?" John asks sarcastically, his southern twang coming out more to match Gunnar's. "This town isn't as hippie as the college students make it seem. Ain't no one buying these things for anything but cooking meth in their backyard. At least you know he's actually good for it," John says, gesturing at me.

I wave and smile for lack of anything better to sell myself with. I hope Inu is sitting pretty and not sniffing her butthole. Not that she would ever; she's better behaved than I am while she's on duty.

"Fine. All cash and I can give you two percent off."

"The suspension system is covered in oil from a leak, and it's rusted enough that I'll have to replace it," John counters before turning to the engine again. He's looked at it three times already.

"Four percent," Gunnar says, walking forward with a stuttering gait, panicking as John grabs something and shakes it hard.

"How's the alternator?"

"Fine!"

"Really? Belts pretty loose. Sure you didn't repair it at the Jiffy Lube instead of with Mulkey's?" John asks.

This time, Gunnar fully stomps like a toddler throwing a tantrum. He types furiously on his tablet before turning to me and slapping it against my chest. "Six percent. Cash. Take it and get the fuck out. Make sure you take that shit head with you."

John flashes a victorious grin from behind Gunnar. "Don't forget the military discount."

Gunnar sighs and takes back the tablet.

John nods at me and I sign the paperwork there and then under the early morning sun.

"Stay here," Gunnar shouts at John as he leads me inside to pay. Inu's nails click against the vinyl flooring as soon as we enter the air-conditioned building. "You picked one hell of a car guy to help you out."

"Yeah?" I ask as I hand over Gunnar's payment.

"As far as I know, he basically ran Mulkey's—that auto repair shop—since he could hold a wrench. His old man used to work there ‘til he got sacked, but John stayed. Shy kid; don't think I ever even heard him talk. Didn't expect him to come marching in demanding a discount."

I hum in acknowledgement and bid Gunnar goodbye. John has every door open on my new van when Inu and I get back outside.

"I've still got the electrical schematics Aaliyah designed from the last time I did one of these, but if you want less or more, we'll have to talk to her again," he says when he sees me approach. "I can't be trusted to design any wiring, but I can do all the rest: strip it, wire what's designed, build and paint the interior. Do you know what kind of style you're going for?" he asks, looking back at me.

He's taller than me and I have to look up to see his honeyed gaze that instantly hardens. John quickly breaks the contact and begins to shut the doors.

"I saw someone put a gaming system in theirs," I tell him. "But don't you need to change the suspension first?"

He smirks and looks down at his watch. "Nope, that was a bluff. If you're looking for a gaming system, you'll definitely need to talk to Aaliyah. She'll have to completely redesign the electrical schematics." John wears his watch on the inside of his wrist. "I'm actually supposed to be headed into the shop for my first shift. I can't meet tomorrow, but I'll come by Monday and strip the van after class. That work?"

"Yeah." That gives me enough time to binge watch videos on YouTube so I don't come off as a total idiot. I don't think I've ever even used a power tool.

"Hey, I figure this is a dumb question, but I feel like maybe you wouldn't say anything unless I asked. You're good to drive, right?" John asks.

I look down at Inu in confusion and then at my prosthesis, hidden behind a pair of green joggers. "Oh," I start, before remembering the John from last night. The one who makes crude jokes and I kind of wanted to be friends with. "Dude, just because I'm Asian doesn't mean I can't drive."

John easily takes the bait. "Could've fooled me, but I guess it isn't just Marines that eat crayons."

I really want to prove myself to John by saying something snarky back, but I'm a one-trick pony—something that Gonzales often reminds me of when he roasts me—so I let out a shocked bark of laughter instead. John looks away, rubbing the back of his neck, but he can't hide his smirk as he realizes he's hit his mark.

After deployment, my buddies came to visit me. We went out to the bars and I watched them try to pick up girls—I'm not out to them for military self-preservation. It turns out our dark humor scared most of the girls off. By the end of the night, most of them were biting it back to combat their dry spell.

I don't know exactly what's going through John's brain as he shakes his head but personally, I'm realizing that I've made a civvy friend other than Gonzales that can not only understand my jokes but play along tenfold.

"You're not too bad, Johnny boy," I tell him. "I'll see you later, man."

I watch him shake his head again, bemused, before walking back towards his car. His jeans flex tightly over his thighs.

Inu pants beside me and I look away from John. The van is where I need to hone in my focus.

Aaliyah meetsme in the visitor parking lot beside the Duke Chapel. As I stare up the backside of the building, she eyes my new van.

My fingers itch for the cigarettes I smoked in Afghanistan as I see the building I was so often forced to visit for the annual Handel's Messiah concert. My old man can be such a nerd and I still feel the stiffness of the suit I'd have to stuff myself into just to hear some students perform a dead guy's music.

"Did John go with you?" she asks.

I pull my eyes away from the stone building and watch her run a hand against the side.

"Yeah. He picked it," I tell her, rubbing Inu's neck. She'll be excited to just laze around Aaliyah's dorm for the rest of the day.

I nod and Aaliyah waves me over to follow her. The dorm buildings look like the rest of the campus—stone blocks stacked to make it look like a medieval palace. If I let my mind wander, I can almost imagine knights running around instead of students, townspeople crowding the town square, and some old-time priest ringing the bell high in the chapel.

Instead, there's just students milling about, going from class to class, sitting on the oversized benches as they soak up the autumn sun.

"My roommate is here today too. Hopefully she doesn't give you any problems." Aaliyah opens the main door for me, and I stand inside awkwardly as I wait for her to show me the way.

"Does she normally give people problems?" I ask.

"She's a little boy crazy. She was all over John when they first met."

Laughing, I imagine his dismissive behavior and stoic face must be hard for anyone to flirt with. Although, it also does give him that mysterious vibe.

"Hey Keelie. This is Isamu and that's Inu," Aaliyah says as we step in.

Aaliyah's dorm is covered in, well, everything. It looks like a storm swept through, tossing clothes on top of notebooks and makeup on top of circuit boards. The posters don't look any better, half falling off the walls where they were almost replaced by notes, spared only by distraction.

"He's so cute!" Keelie says, already standing from where she was headed out.

I immediately thrust my leg in front of Inu as Keelie jumps forward, her beaded shawl tinkling in her rush.

"Inu's on duty," I tell Keelie, looking down at where she's crouched in an attempt to get to Inu.

"Seriously?" she whines. "You can't bring a puppo into my dorm and expect me not to pet him."

I bite my lips shut between gritted teeth. I've had a few problems here and there with Inu when I get on the bus or walk into the grocery store, but it doesn't get easier.

"Keelie. Don't be disrespectful," Aaliyah chastises sternly.

"You're right," Keelie starts, brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, new friend, and new friend puppo." She stands up abruptly and takes a step back before extending a closed fist. "I'm Keelie. Nice to meet you."

I knock my fist against hers. "Isamu. Likewise."

But I'm glad to see her walk out the door.

"Anyways... van?" Aaliyah does a clean sweep with her arm across the desk, and a bunch of notebooks and other things tumble to the ground. When she sees the look on my face, she waves nonchalantly. "I'll organize them later."

"Hey, don't let me dictate how you live your life," I tell her with a chuckle.

Watching Aaliyah work is like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of thin air. I tell her the parts I'll need in the van: lighting, a stove, solar panels—and she builds an intricate map of lines and squiggles that seem more confusing than the DC metro line.

It takes longer than I expected because it turns out we need to pick out the lighting and other electronics while we're at it; something about voltage and amperage overloads. Between John's knowledge of cars and Aaliyah's knowledge of whatever black magic this is, I've never felt so inadequate in my life.

While she builds and tweaks the diagram displayed on her laptop, I go through a list of things I'm good at. Basketball, being a dog dad, shooting a gun, cooking—definitely cooking. She emails the diagram to me and John. I'm not sure why she even bothered sending it to me since I can't understand it, but at least she declares step one complete.

"What's step two?" I ask her as she distractedly pulls out her phone.

"I have to put some components together, but you don't need to be there for that." She puts her phone away and looks at me seriously. "So, Isamu. What's your life story?"

I laugh and reach for Inu's thick fur below me. Since Keelie left earlier, I felt safe enough to take her off duty and she's happily chewing on a tennis ball. "Uh, I grew up in Durham. My dad actually works here?—"

"He does? What's your last name?"

"Miura," I tell her, worried that she may have had my dad for a class. I've been told by Gonzales that he's kind of a hard ass.

"Professor Takeo Miura is your dad?"

I grimace. "Is that bad?"

She shrugs. "John's had him a few times but I never have. John's a poli-sci major."

"Oh? I didn't even know his major." I feel kind of bad for talking about John when he's not here. He's clearly a private person and I want to respect that. Even if it's unlikely I'll ever get any information out of him.

"Ha, yeah. That sounds like John," Aaliyah says wistfully.

I wonder what their relationship is like when John is keeping his personal life so separate from his best friend. It's a little like Gonzales not telling me about suing his mom because he was embarrassed. Is John embarrassed about his life or is it something else?

Aaliyah and I end up lying on the floor. I trade innocent but embarrassing stories about Gonzales in exchange for brownies. It makes me feel like a dog, especially when Inu ditches her tennis ball to stare at us. She jealously gives us a side eye, knowing she can't beg, but wanting to anyway.

I learn Aaliyah hates her sister. She learns I'm an only child and my mom lives across the world, even though my parents aren't divorced.

"I kind of wish my parents were divorced," she says as she holds her hand above her face.

"It used to feel like my parents were," I respond. Now, it feels like they're divorcing me. "Why do you wish your parents were divorced?"

She shrugs and shifts the pile of clothes under her head. "Then it'd only be one person complaining about my existence instead of both of them. It's exhausting."

I rub my fingers together, itching for a cigarette as I think of how Aaliyah longed for her parents' ferocity to be separated, and I long for mine to be together again. Maybe if Aaliyah had parents like mine.

"Eh, I'm sure they wouldn't even understand that diagram you just drew. It'd probably impress them."

She laughs quietly. "It wouldn't. But it fucking should."

John

A dog chainrattles from the trailer behind me and the back of my neck explodes in goosebumps as I sit on the Camaro, my dad's bottle of gin clutched in my hand. He's sitting on the front steps of the mobile—sober—and watching me carefully.

The air is filled with the crunching of leaves and the conversations inside the other homes, but not with our own voices. My dad runs a hand over his buzzed hair and lets his head fall against his knees.

"How's school?" he finally asks.

I press the closed cap of the gin bottle against my lips. It'd be so easy to be like him; never worrying about anything but when's the next bottle. The gin bottle is warm against my hands but I know if I took a good swig from it, it'd fill my stomach cold as it heavily rested on top of my morals.

"Fine," I snap out, wishing he would just go away. It was going fine, until I checked my exam results online and realized my GPA is going to drop again. Before I knew it, I was sitting out here with the bottle of gin I didn't even bother to throw out when I found it, ass planted on my dad and I's wasted dreams.

"Is it... is it, uh, boy troubles?"

My dad's been sober since I went to college and he got a DUI within my first week away. He still didn't have a job back then, and his military disability checks weren't going to be enough to pay bail and the fine. I'd been so pissed off that it took him a week to finally fess up and tell me he'd gotten diagnosed with liver cirrhosis and in his bullshit mind, a drive would help him miraculously come across a new, life-saving liver.

My dad's going to die before I reach thirty. Before he reaches fifty. He's going to leave me alone all over again.

There's nothing I hate more than the fact that it took that for him to sober up. Not me, his own child, fending for ways to feed myself at ten years old. Not him losing his job at the mechanics. He couldn't even be bothered to be sober on any of mom's birthdays or the anniversaries of her death. Only his impending death—only his life—has ever mattered.

But the worst part is that he isn't even a half bad dad, now that he's sober.

I just wish he'd been sober sooner.

"Not boy troubles," I tell him, clutching the gin bottle so tightly that I wish it would just go ahead and shatter against my skin.

Logically, I understand that my GPA dropping a little isn't a big deal. I'm trying to cling onto that thought as hard as I can, using all the tools the free on-campus therapy has provided. But I can't fight the lung crushing fear that in the end, I'll wind up here.

Living in this trailer park, dog snapping their chains behind me, holding a bottle of gin, slowly turning into my father.

I'm just expediting the process.

"Do you wanna?—"

My dad's cut off as I let out a scream, frustration bubbling to the edge, forcing its way out of my throat in a tearing sensation as emotion overwhelms me. The bottle neck fits easily in my palm as I bring it down onto the Camaro, letting the scream light the fuse of all my fears and burn them easily all in one.

The broken bits of glass hang off the end of the bottleneck, and I stare down at it through blurry eyes as my pa gingerly takes it from my hand, then wraps his thin arms around me.

"I know, kid. I know." He rubs his hands, already marked with sunspots that he shouldn't have at such a young age, across my back. "It's okay, Jay. Let it out, I've got you now. That's it."

I want to push him away. I want to tell him the reason everything is so fucked up is because of him. Because he took one look at the empty mobile without the presence of my golden, unstoppable mother, and quit. He left me alone to die. I've been dying ever since.

"Jay, let's go inside. I think you cut your hand." He wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me into the house, his other hand wrapping his knit cardigan tighter over his swollen gut. "Come on, boy. Come here. I've got some medical supplies in here," he says, leading me to the single bathroom in the house.

I blink through the tears and look at the dingy mirror, trying to set my facial expression back to neutral.

Back to safety.

"I like your hair. That girl do it for you?" he asks as he pulls my hand closely to his face to inspect it for glass. He clicks his tweezers together—a mechanic looking for a faulty part. But no mechanic can open my heart and fix the loose wires.

"Aaliyah. Yeah, she did."

"Looks good," he says, pouring rubbing alcohol over the cuts.

The worst one is in the middle of my palm.

"I wanted dreads when I was—stop fidgeting, I know it hurts—when I was younger. Your momma said it'd make me look like a hippie."

"Like a Rasta?"

"Like Bob Marley. You know in those Vietnam movies they always play that—what song is that? John, what song do they play when they're flying in the Hueys in those Vietnam movies?" my pa asks.

"Fortunate Son," I tell him, grabbing the gauze with my good hand and passing it over. I hadn't meant to cut myself. Hell, I hadn't even meant to smash the bottle. I'm embarrassed now as I look down at the mess I've made. Normally, it's me doing this type of thing for my dad.

"Yeah. But, did you know, that song came out just before Bob Marley's first album with?—"

"With the Wailers. Yeah, pa, I know. Mom hated when you'd put on that record."

He grins, his uneven teeth flashing up at me. "She did. She hated it. Says we should be teaching you blues—music from our people. But I never complained when she'd play you jazz and, boy, did she play you jazz."

"It was her favorite," I agree clinically, pushing away the memories.

"Named you in honor of it after all," he says awkwardly. He secures that bandage and squeezes my hand, causing me to flinch at the pain. "Imagine how ticked off she'd be if she ever found out that me and the guys would let you listen to rap with us. Anyway, the point is, Bob Marley is never played in those Vietnam movies, even though his music was released before the end of the Vietnam war."

"Pa, you didn't even go to Vietnam." He wasn't alive for it. But he was at enlistment age when the towers dropped.

"I know that, boy. I was just talking because I didn't know if you'd gone into shock or something and . . . well, that's what they tell us to do, when someone goes into shock."

"Talk them to death?" I ask, a wobbly grin on my face as I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand.

He squeezes my shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head at him and go to the kitchen; focusing on tasks is my sure-fire way of leaving emotion on the backburner. Since it's Sunday, I've been in here meal prepping my dad's entire week. It's hard to see all the meals that went uneaten last week, but at least I can eat them now.

"Dinner," I tell him, slapping the Tupperware container on the coffee table.

The dog barksfrom the storage unit at the sound of my work boots crunching on leaves. One of the leaves takes a bonus hit as I take a step backward, nervous to get any closer to the dog. Isamu looks up at my frightened face from where he's been staring at a pack of drill bits, like he's trying to uncover the secrets of the universe.

"It's just part of her training to alert me when people are coming," he says before motioning to a wooden container on the workbench.

I continue to watch the dog who has calmly gone back to laying on the hard concrete, despite the dog bed beside her. Feeling as safe as if I were sticking my fingers into a Copperhead hole but itching for the paycheck Isamu and I agreed on, I forge ahead to the wooden box Isamu motioned at.

Only the top is wooden, and I finagle the elastic strap holding it together to open the stack of two.

"Is..." There's food in the box and I stare down at it, not sure what I'm intended to do with it. There isn't a microwave in the storage unit and, even if there was, I'm not sure I want to heat up Isamu's dinner and establish this as routine.

I'm here to work on the van and get paid. Not play housemaid.

"I just kind of figured you didn't have enough time to eat between everything going on. It's a bento box. In Japan, we make them for, uh, friends."

I look back at Isamu, surprised, before looking back at the box in my hand. There are chopsticks attached to the top of the box but not forks.

"Oh. Thanks," I tell him, plucking off the chopsticks. They're nice, not like the kind they automatically give you at the Chinese restaurant in town, which smells like sweet and sour sauce.

I stare at the chopsticks in my hand, debating if I can just stab at the food. I haven't actually had time to eat anything, other than a bag of chips between classes and a cereal bar before my shift. My stomach hurts so bad that it feels like it's either going to start eating its own lining or open a black hole from the pressure alone.

Isamu finally gives up on the drill bits as he sees me clutching the chopsticks in my fist.

"Sorry, I probably should've brought a fork. Here." He holds out his hand and I pass him the chopsticks, watching raptly as he tucks one against the fleshy part of his thumb and the other between the top of his thumb and pointer finger.

"And then you just squeeze," he says, handing them back.

They're awkward in my too-large hand, especially with the gauze wrapped around it. I fumble them a few times, ignoring the smirk on Isamu's face.

"Should I feed you?" he asks teasingly, motioning at my injured hand.

"You should shut the fuck up," I respond, finally grasping a piece of crispy chicken.

I move my face close to the box and take a bite. There's a sauce on the chicken that I've never tasted before, and it explodes on my tongue as the crispy outer skin mixes in with the tenderness of the chicken.

"This is actually really good," I tell him when I finally pause for air—I'm half shoveling, half inhaling the food into my mouth.

Isamu blushes and runs a hand across his stubble. "Thanks, it's karaage. Just wait until you try the dessert. I've always felt like I'm better at those."

I open the box below and eye the sugar-cube-looking object.

"How's the stripping going?" I ask, motioning at the clearly untouched van.

When Isamu looks away, I stuff the sugar cube in my mouth with my fingers and am shocked when my teeth sink into a jelly-like substance that manages to be sweet and savory at the same time. I eat another.

"I unscrewed everything and then the sides still didn't come off, so I went and took Inu to the park, and made food and now we're here."

I stuff another jelly in my mouth and lick my fingers clean. "Did you make sure you got the screws under the caps?"

He nods and I go to his toolbox, full of shiny new toys, and grab the flathead.

"There are latches between the top panels you'll need to undo, and then everything should come apart. I'll show you the first one."

I hop into the van and Isamu follows. As I reach up to undo the first latch, I realize that Isamu is a lot shorter than me. Even on his tiptoes, he may not be able to reach these.

"Can you reach them?" I ask, passing over the flathead.

"Don't be a dick," he responds, his hand warm against mine, a grin on his face. He stretches himself as far as possible to reach the roof.

Subconsciously, I put out my arms to help balance him, but I put them back against my sides just as quickly, afraid that he may take it as an insult.

"You'll stab yourself if you do it that way," I tell him, grabbing the flathead from his hand.

"Is that what happened to your hand?" Isamu asks.

"Something like that." I pop off the other latches—it'll go quicker if I just do it myself.

"When I was a kid, there was this cute little box turtle on the side of the road outside of my high school. It was April, you know how rainy it gets in North Carolina during April," Isamu says, leaning against the van panel's latch. "I thought I'd do the good Samaritan thing and I picked him up to put him on the other side, far into the grass so he wouldn't get hit by a car."

"Makes sense," I exhale as I pry off the panel.

He rushes forward to give me a hand and we carry the panel to the side of the storage unit.

"Right? But, when I turned around to go back to the road, my knee didn't come with me, slipping in the wet grass," he says, gripping his prosthesis underneath his fancy joggers—lilac this time—with the memories of the pain. "Turns out I tore my ACL."

I wince and he smiles, thankful for the shared sympathy.

"It was after my freshman basketball season, so it wasn't the end of the world or anything, but I told everyone I got the injury playing a pick-up game, because I didn't want to fess up and say it was because I tripped saving a turtle."

"Didn't want anyone to see the softy inside?" I joke but I can't imagine Isamu being anything but a blunt, open book he's been so far.

"Not all of us can be as emotionally vulnerable as you," he shoots back with a grin. "Guess the surgery was pointless anyway, since I lost the knee eventually," he adds, softly. "How'd you hurt your hand?"

I freeze from where I'm prying off the last panel from the roof.

"Is this how it's gonna be then?" I ask. "You tell me a secret; I tell you mine? Then you drive away to disappear into the forest with all my secrets, and I stay here holding all of yours?"

He shrugs. "Nope. I tell you a secret and you have the option of telling me a secret, since now you know something that I don't want anyone to know, but you can always not tell me something."

I hand him the last panel, putting the screwdriver between my teeth as I tie my hair up and out of my face, minding the jewelry doesn't press too tightly against my head. "I only meant that as a one-time thing ‘cause I felt bad for you being stupid enough to stand under a falling building."

That earns me a smirk.

"But tell me something bigger then, because this is bigger than a turtle beating you up," I play along.

Isamu frowns in thought and pauses to rub at Inu's coarse fur.

"So not embarrassing?"

"Not that type of embarrassing," I correct. "More like, emotionally taxing."

Isamu hums in thought, his bright lips disappearing into his mouth as he chews on them. "Oh! I've got something. It isn't embarrassing, I just never get the chance to tell anyone." He pauses, taking a great breath, a smile on his face. "I'm gay."

I think the concept of gaydar is funny. As if I, along with every other queer person on the planet, should just know when they're in the presence of another queer person. That's of course, not true. If it were, men wouldn't have been wearing bandanas in their back pockets since the Gold Rush, or the 1970s—depends on who you ask. A secret code just to be able to pick each other out in a crowd of straight men.

It may be a trend we need to bring back because my gaydar is obviously nonexistent.

"Why can't you tell anyone?" I ask.

"Well, it's more like I was too scared to. I realized it my freshman year of high school, before the homecoming dance and, well, I didn't want to ask any of the girls. I wanted to ask one of the football players—always liked them big and rugged," he laughs, eyes lost in a memory. "But basketball tryouts were coming up and I didn't want to blow my chances at making the team. Then I just... kept not telling anyone because suddenly I was on varsity, and there was a lot of pressure.

"It's ironic that I was brave enough—or stupid depending how you look at it—to enlist, but not brave enough to come out to my squad. The same secret I'd kept for so long just sitting in my gut, year after year." Isamu looks up at me, gauging my reaction.

My reaction that probably won't be sympathetic enough. I've never known what to say in any situation and this one isn't any easier.

"You've never told anyone?" I ask.

That's a heavy secret to carry just because the timing was never right.

He shrugs. "I got a little brave on deployment, you know, when no one could actually reject me to my face and death was looming at every corner. I sent a letter to my parents and another to Gonzales. Turns out my parents kind of had an inkling when I didn't date anyone in high school. Gonzales just straight up knew because I got so wasted in Mexico that I made out with a guy." Isamu lets out a self-deprecating laugh and motions at me with his hand.

"Your turn. Only if you want to, of course."

I sigh and sit down on the lip of the van. Isamu sits beside me and for a second, I'm scared he'll put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

But he doesn't.

Because we're just pit stops in each other's lives. That's what makes it easier.

I tell him about the exam. I tell him about the bottle of gin. I tell him I'm scared I'm going to turn into my dad. I don't tell him that sometimes I kind of want to, but I can tell he knows.

I don't tell him about the cirrhosis because I don't want to cry.