Tightrope

He's Gone

My phone buzzed in my pocket with an incoming call.

Daria was performing some elaborate trick involving strawberries and a makeshift bow and arrow for the clamouring audience of our friends, and I was giggling and leaning almost imperceptibly—it barely happened, I did not have sexual relations with that woman Ms Lewinsky—into Jace as Kaelin wrapped her arms around herself in a mock make out session. But then my phone went off again, and the vibrations were incessant. 

Jace and I had clambered down the stairs earlier to raucous applause and whistling from our friends. Jace didn't believe in outward displays of embarrassment, so he'd bowed and waved to the crowd as if they were adoring subjects, smiling confidently. I'd grinned and waved; though my grin was razor sharp and my wave only used one finger. 

We'd spent the rest of the morning fielding questions, which I'd beaten off with nonsensical answers until my friends had given up. So, you're into Hartley now? Sorry, in the dark I thought it was someone else. So, what prompted you to jump into bed with Jace Hartley? An insatiable need for dick, obviously, Alex. 

I pulled the phone from my pocket as Daria released the arrow until it cut the strawberry in two. My screen was lit up with a picture of my father wearing a nacho sombrero, and his name in the display.

"I gotta take this," I said quietly to Kaelin, slipping off the bar stool and stepping outside. The afternoon was warm and sunny, but I still wrapped my arms around myself with a sense of foreboding. I accepted the third call as it came in. Why would my father be calling me? Was something wrong? He had never called me so many times in succession; not since the police officers had told him about the accident, and I'd been left with 32 phone calls from my father, needing to hear my voice. A sense of panic clawed it's way up my throat; what if Liv had been in another car accident? What if Austin had? "Dad?"

"Hey, sweetheart," said Dad. His voice was calm, kind. The knot in my chest loosened. "Can you tell me why I just found Cole Knight pissing in your toilet?"

I blinked. Oh. 

"Okay, Dad, I can definitely explain," I said in a rush. "But firstly, can you elaborate further on this story? Because it sounds really quite funny. Describe the exact expression on Knight's face. I'm also sorry; like, really, really sorry. I don't regret it, because Knight is the best and I wanted him to be safe. Did he tell you that his parents kicked him out? But whether you trust me right not or not, remember that no matter what I do, I'm still a better child than Austin."

I tried not to let my renewed sense of panic show, but I do not believe the attempt was successful. 

"Woah, slow down there," Dad said. "I caught maybe three words of that."

I opened my mouth to start again, but in the background I heard Knight's voice. But it didn't sound like Knight; not completely. This voice was small and scared and plaintive, like that of a child. Knight's voice was smooth arrogance and loud confidence; this was diminished and foreign, and yet unmistakably him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to cause... I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, mate," my dad said kindly. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

A sense of relief flooded through me. I should've trusted my parents from the start; I should've had faith in their kindness, in their understanding.

"We can sort something out for you," said Dad. "We could set you up a room, help you get back on your feet. We can go over to see your parents, I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding."

My heart sunk. I had been right. My dad wasn't a bad person; he was the kind of person who had faith in his friends. And I was the kind of person who had faith in mine.