50.

When I got home, Monica walked toward me holding Ian in front of her. He was facing me, flailing his arms.

“Someone’s happy to see you,” she said.

“Hi, boo,” I said, kissing him under his chin. I took him and he looked at me and smiled, quickly squirming around, wanting to get down. Monica left for school, and Ian and I headed into our room so I could lie down and figure out our next move. Ian didn’t want to go, but I put him down on the rug next to my bed anyway. I stared up at the ceiling and saw the mean queen take shape within the shadows and light from outside. As Ian groped my sheet, I looked down at him and noticed a triangle-shaped bruise on the lower part of his cheek. It hadn’t been there when I’d left that morning. I reached into my bag and texted Monica: Did I. have a spill?

Something started brewing as I waited for her to respond, the same rage that had been percolating all day, but now more distilled, honed. Monica was not taking as good care of Ian as I could. Monica was probably texting some friend as Ian pulled himself up the coffee table and then fell back down, banging his cheek.

I don’t know how much time went by before I heard a key in the door. When I heard it, I had a split-second moment of thinking it was Ian’s mother, finally coming home; that she’d give me my money and send me on my way.

Dad was on the phone telling someone he’d “circle back” to them after “the due diligence.” I wondered how he could stand doing what he did all day. I got up slowly and brought Ian out to the living room, feeling voraciously hungry. Dad was in the kitchen, rinsing a cucumber, a bag of spinach on the counter.

“I don’t want spinach salad,” I said, getting a glass out of the cabinet and letting it slam shut.

“I wouldn’t dream of making you spinach salad,” he said offhandedly. “I was going to sauté it in some garlic.”

“What’s that?” I pointed to a cucumber on the cutting board.

“I believe it’s a cucumber,” he said, holding it up and turning it around, examining. “I was just going to slice it up to dip in some hummus. That all right?”

“I’m starving,” I said. I filled the glass with water, letting it fill up too quickly to overflowing. My lonely life settled onto me like soot.

“Ian has a giant bruise on his face,” I said, ripping off a paper towel. “I texted Monica because I want to know what the hell happened, but she hasn’t responded.”

He put the knife he’d been cutting the cucumber with down and went out to the living room to look at Ian’s face.

“I don’t see it,” he said.

I stormed out of the kitchen. “Right there,” I said, pointing. “How can you not see that? It’s getting darker by the minute.”

“Oh, that,” he said, straightening up. “It doesn’t look too bad. Just a little nick.”

“No, well, I’ve got news for you,” I said, my brain starting to tighten. “He’s not safe! He’s not safe, Dad, and you don’t give a shit!” As I said it, I wondered what I was actually screaming about. I didn’t want to watch Ian all day. I liked being away from home, escaping, even if it had to be at Pullman. I picked up a square plastic block Ian had chucked under the couch, understanding deep down that my emotional turmoil was much vaster and murkier than I realized, and that only pissed me off more.

Dad held his hands up and went back to the kitchen. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Whatever happened, it’s a small bruise. Given what happened with his leg, you must realize that accidents happen. To everyone. Including you.” He pointed his finger at me.

“Now you’re going to start with the irresponsible Thea bullshit?” I said.

“I didn’t mean it as an attack,” he answered, his voice growing tighter and more monotonous as he went back toward the kitchen. “Just be careful.”

“I am careful!” I screamed, making him fumble and almost drop the cucumber. “I’m nothing but careful. Why is nothing I do ever good enough for you?”

He started to say something, then turned stonily back to the cutting board. Then he looked up again, gritting his teeth.

“C’mon, Dad, out with it!” I yelled, shaking. “What else? Anything else? Let’s hear it. You think I’m a complete screw-up. Trust me, you don’t have to say it.”

“Thea, I suggest you collect yourself,” he said, pointing the knife at me. “I certainly didn’t come home early to hear this.”

“Who asked you to come home early? You think I want to spend every freaking night with you? Please, go find a client who wants to have dinner, for once. Please!”

He looked at me, his mouth tightening into a little ball, which only spurred me on.

“I wish I could be anywhere but here, believe me.”

“Great.” He thrust his arm out at the door. “Then go.”

I shoved past him and grabbed Ian off the living room floor. He was wearing a onesie with blue stars on it. I’d have to get Ian dressed. We both looked at Ian. My whole life with Dad rose in my throat, our awkward, silent dinners, all the empty time I spent alone at his apartment when I was younger and he was at work, flipping through the pages of his photography books while I waited for him to get home, just so that I could say goodnight and finally go to bed—how I always, always waited up to say goodnight just to make it feel like there was a purpose to me sleeping over.

Dad stood frozen in the kitchen, the knife at his hip.

“Mom was right,” I said. “What the hell was I thinking?”