The Girl Who Never Acts Like One

Chapter Twenty: Vulnerability

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ian shuffled his feet across the wet grounds of the park, occasionally bending down and squinting through the fine strands of bermuda grasses.

He is looking for something. His pen. 

No matter what, he couldn’t afford to lose it.

“I must find it, I must find it,” he murmured to himself repeatedly, though—by habit—still conscious enough to hide a good portion of his face with his bangs to avoid future attention of the dashing people.

Certainly, no one knew about the importance of his autograph pen. No one. Not even Mr. J. 

That pen looks so casual. But he treasures it. 

Very much. 

He treasures it more than his own dozens of albums, guitars, headphones, football, jersey, and all those stuffs he love so much. He just can’t get rid of that memory one late night from 3 years ago when he was still 16, when he saw his father crying and drinking wine, while murmuring his mother’s name. He simply couldn’t understand to why his father, who was never fond of alcoholic drinks, drunk a lot of wine and beers that very night when he had his 5th wedding anniversary to his wife, Qyn. 

They seem happy together as a couple, Ian thought vividly. 

But no…he was wrong. His father was never happy. He was just so good in acting happy that he was able to fool everyone—everyone, even him, his eldest son; Qyn, his kind, lovable and artistic wife; and Kendrick, their 8-year-old son. 

He even remembered himself inching towards him at that time—sneaking out from behind the wall to where he hid—meaning to comfort him. He remembered with how he extended his patience just to adjust to his drunken state. He also remembered with how he ended up crying with him, deep fury curling in his insides as he gradually remembered his real mother, to whom this man left, broken and abandoned.

“You married Tita Qyn, even if you still love mom!,” he remembered himself shouting angrily, “I asked you when I was little—before you married her—if you love her, and if ever marrying her will make you happy, and you said, ‘yes’! But, now what? You’re lying?!,” he pointed at his father in frustration, forcing his hot temper down, “Have you realized that you’ve not only hurt my mother, but also other people, Pa? Are you a fool to play with other people’s feelings?”

Dave Lopez replied between hoarse drunken sobs, stricken, “I know! I know! But you don’t understand, Ian. If you only knew how hard it was for me to leave your Mom—”

“Did you love her?!,” he spat, losing control of himself.

“Yes, I did. I really did. If you only—”

“Then why did you leave her?”

“You won’t understand, Ian. You’ve known nothing. You don’t know how—”

“Tell me everything then.”

At that moment, his father’s face turned more haggard than ever. He couldn’t pinpoint why.

“Ian, I just can’t. I really…just can’t. I-I—?”

“Why?”

Dave turned speechless. His face contorted with the effort to speak. Ian gritted his teeth with revulsion, and before he knew it, Dave’s both trembling hands were on his, “Ian…I beg you…please.”

Ian remained quiet, his breathing uneven due to anger, rebellion striking on his gut. Dave began to reach for something inside his pockets. Ian watched him in disdain. With hands trembling, his father was able to give this something to him, eyes watering with tears, and breath smelling like rot.