That kid was lying, the man thinks. For sure. How could he not know?
It was Fineas’ own girlfriend who left, after all. She would have told him. She would have at least texted him an explanation.
He looks in the mirror in front of him, dragging the razor across his face. He sees an aging man, a man with rings under his drooping eyes as prominent as the ones found in trees. He watches the grief register across his face when he thinks of his daughter, all alone. His hands tighten around the razor when he remembers her insolent boyfriend.
Did Fineas drive her away? The question lingers in the back of his mind. Is he as disrespectful to April as he was to him?
He knows, though, that it wasn’t Fineas.
He knows it was himself.
He is desperate to know that she is okay. He just wants to keep her safe.
When he doesn’t let her go out, he tells her it’s for the greater good. You never know who’s out there, waiting for a naive teenage girl to come running straight into their trap that they cover up with honey-soaked remarks.
He’s always insisted on her telling him where she goes. He insists on driving her places–he won’t let her go alone.
“It’s all for protection,” he tells her when she dares complain. It drives him crazy when she complains.
“You should be happy about this,” he informed her once. “Stop that goddamn complaining. You sound so ungrateful!” When she had tried to interject, he snapped at her. “Aren’t you thankful that I’m doing this for you? Most parents wouldn’t bother, you know. Most parents wouldn’t care,” he fumed. “I care.” His voice had broken on that last line, and he remembers feeling mad at himself for being weak.
Now, he doesn’t care if he’s acting vulnerable. As long as he finds her. She’s been gone for over a week.
He’s so lost in his memory that he doesn’t even realize he nicked himself with his razor until the pain snaps him out of his trance.
He looks around for a tissue before remembering he ran out.
He murmurs a curse under his breath.
Glancing back at the mirror, he notices that the nick is bigger than he realizes. A single drop of blood runs down his face. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. He watches it, admiring the path it makes. Zigzag like a skier on a mountain.
He breathes in deeply, feeling his irritation bubbling inside of him retreat like a scared animal, afraid to come out.
He wipes the blood off with a towel, then throws it into the laundry.
He’s beginning to feel calm again when a thought disturbs his peace and quiet.
“Just like you were so worried about me, right?”
His son’s words echo in his mind.
There is so much to unpack within them.
There’s the indication that he doesn’t care about either of them.
Not true.
There’s the undertones of lasting anger.
Shouldn’t be true.
There’s the fake compassion that came before them.
Can’t be true.
Because it’s fake like plastic, fake like his son’s look of admiration with spite hidden beneath it.
Every piece is different, but they have one thing in common.
Lie. Lie. Lie.