Chameleon ✔️

30 halves

          There's this one saying that I've never quite understood: "All good things must come to an end." Maybe because in my experience, there's not been many good things — one or two or three — but in my experience, the reality of life is that everything has its end. Nothing, good or bad, can last forever. So I think this particular saying is kind of fruitless. But, then again, I've never been a "glass half full" kinda gal.

The best thing in my life was my mother, and she ended.

Riding out the bad is my specialty. I wouldn't say that I'm exceptionally great at it, but it's all I've ever known. I don't make decisions that will make myself happy or feel good or entertain a certain desire or curiosity. I make decisions that will satisfy a need — that need being the luxury of being alive. Riding out the bad and expecting no good at the end of it, only more bad, is what is expected of me. It's what I expect of myself. I may not be exceptionally great at it, but I do know how to.

So that has become my plan. To ride out this wave and hope for there not to be more crashing at the end of it, but preparing to get thrown off my board anyway. At least I know I can always get back on.

Late one night, Dad's finally decided he's ready to talk. I know because he comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed and patiently waits for me to finish the page of the book I'm reading. His aura is unassuming, but firm. I fold a fresh dog-ear into the corner and set the book on the nightstand. It's the What Should You Be When You Grow Up? book.

"You alright?" is his question. Funny — that's my question, too.

"Why wouldn't I be?" is my deflective answer. Deflective because I'm not sure I know the answer.

"You've just been acting different since you came home."

I scoff without really meaning to. "Can you blame me?"

"I just thought you'd be happier. We're not running any more. We're finally settling."

"I thought I'd be happier, too," I admit. "But it just doesn't seem..." I chew on the inside of my cheek, searching for the word. "Final. Nobody knows where he is, Dad."

His aura is black for just a fraction of a second before he puts back up the brave front. "So, what does that mean? Do you wanna go somewhere else?"

"I don't know. I mean, no. I mean..." I look down at my lap, ashamed. "I don't know."

He clasps his hands together in front of him. "What's this really about?" he asks. "Everything going okay with Eli?"

"Yeah, everything's great," I assure him, even if it's not one hundred percent true because Eli doesn't one hundred percent know who I am and who we became in such a short time and who we used to be such a short time ago. "I guess I was just expecting some sort of resolution, maybe? I still feel, I don't know, on edge? Like something's not right. And I'm so tired, Dad."

"Well, you've had a rough couple of months," he says. "So that's definitely justified."

"I've had a rough couple of the past eleven years," I correct him.

I hadn't meant it as a jab at him or his parenting skills, but his aura and face both drop. "I know part of that is my fault." He stops, corrects himself. "A lot of it is my fault." He reaches out to me, places a hand on my knee. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you, Pen."

My response is a reflex. "It's okay."

"No. No, it's not. And I know that no amount of apologies will make up for what I've done. Had I believed you, things might've played out a long time ago."