Chapter 21

Logan slunk into the comedy club and found a seat in the darkest corner. The buzz of happy voices filled the air, mingling with the soft pop playing in the background. There were plenty of empty seats scattered around the periphery of the small room. Guess his dad wasn't as popular after all these years as he used to think he was.

Stephen had never known that Logan had scoured the newspapers and online sites for any snippet in relation to his dad. There weren't a lot in the early days but as Stephen Holmes became more known on the comedy circuit the mentions increased. Logan had systematically printed out those articles, no matter how innocuous, and pasted them into a scrapbook.

Which he'd burned after his mum's funeral.

Stephen had been dead to him, why keep a physical reminder of the man who consistently let him down his entire childhood?

He shouldn't be here. Not when disappointment still clogged his chest an hour after he'd ended things with Hope.

She didn't get it. Didn't get him. She'd taken one look at his house and virtually accused him of lying about his wealth. Fuck. Just because he didn't flaunt it, she'd labelled him a douchebag; or something akin to it.

If she'd given him a chance to explain, he might've taken it. He might've opened up about how the humble weatherboard in Footscray was the only place he truly felt at home. That he'd purchased it after saving for two years on his meagre apprentice wage. That he purposefully kept it simple because it reminded him of where he'd come from.

He may not have been back to Rally-Doo since he'd packed his bags after his mum's funeral and headed to Melbourne, but every time he set foot in his place he felt like he'd come home again.

He hadn't picked Hope for a snob. So the way she'd misjudged him so badly rankled and he'd overreacted.

The sex had been phenomenal as usual but there'd been something more this time…a deeper connection that terrified yet exhilarated. He couldn't stick around in Melbourne for her and he certainly wouldn't have her waiting around for whenever he lobbed into town, but while he'd showered he'd actually contemplated various scenarios of how they could make a relationship work.

Then she'd looked down her snooty nose at his place, he'd exploded, and that was the end of that.

He should be glad. They'd had a clean break. No emotional declarations, no drawn-out goodbyes. He hated fuss.

But he wasn't glad. The hollow ache in his chest testified to that. He felt empty, like the day he'd discovered his mum dead on the kitchen floor, as if the only good thing in his life had been sucked away.

A waitress approached and he shook his head. He didn't want a drink. He wanted to confront the demons of his past and finally get some closure. Having this unresolved tension with his dad, combined with the guilt that he wouldn't have known about Stephen's cancer until after he'd died, didn't sit well. He would meet with his father and have the conversation they should've had over a decade ago.

Stephen had returned his call, leaving a message about potentially meeting up next week.

Logan couldn't wait that long.

He preferred the element of surprise and turning up to one of his dad's shows for the first time, with the intent of confronting him afterwards, would have to do.

A few more patrons filtered in as showtime grew closer. The eclectic crowd, ranging from old hippies to young yuppies, made him feel out of place. He preferred a simple pub to this faux trendy club. Black tables, black carpet, and silver-draped walls, with the small stage taking pride of place front and centre, featuring the clichéd crimson velvet curtain drawn shut.

It was stupid, to feel this nervous as the lights dimmed. Logan would soon see his father for the first time in twelve years and his throat tightened. His heart pounded in time with the introduction music blaring through speakers and his mouth grew dry.

The curtains drew back as Logan wiped his sweaty palms down the front of his jeans. Now that the moment had arrived, he wanted to make a run for it.

Then his father stepped forward to the microphone stand and Logan held his breath. His chest caved in on itself, like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked rapidly, willing the urge to hyperventilate away.

This was crazy, his over the top reaction. Grown men didn't feel so weak.

Then his father grinned, catapulting Logan straight back to his fifth birthday, when his dad had presented him with a massive hardback dinosaur book and smiled at him just like that.

Rage made his hand shake as he dashed it across his eyes. This man had stolen so much from him.

What could they possibly say to each other now that would erase the pain of the past?

But Logan had never been a quitter so he sat through his dad's show. With every joke, every anecdote, his anger faded. Until he found his mouth reluctantly quirking into a semi-smile. Stephen was good. He commanded the room and held the audience captive. He delivered punch lines with impeccable timing. He related everyday incidents and made them funny.

But what captured Logan's attention the most was his dad's self-deprecation: because he had the same sense of humour.

When the show wound down and Stephen gave a mock bow to signal the end, Logan couldn't believe an hour had passed. Raucous applause filled the room and he found himself clapping too. As waitresses moved through the room, topping up drink orders before the next act, Logan knew the time had come.

Time to confront his father.