Dance With Me In the Pouring Rain

"You sure you're going to be alright without me?" Tory asked anxiously.

I gave her a look. "Tory, I'm nearly sixteen. I think I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, but you're going to be all alone," she said, concerned. "Annie's gone out with Mum and Dad and Eddie's at a mate's house. Maybe I should stay with you after all."

"Tory, you haven't seen your friends since I came to stay with you," I reasoned. "You can't keep blowing them off to hang out with me; it's not fair on them. Besides, I'll be fine."

She leant forward and hugged me, placing a kiss on my lips. "Okay then. I'll see you later, yeah? I'll have my phone if you need me for anything."

Nodding, I ushered her out of the door. It had been over a week since I'd come to stay with Tory, and I was starting to feel like I was outstaying my welcome. It wasn't like anyone had said anything - they were far too nice for that. I just got a feeling.

Which was why now, left alone, I was going to see my dad to sort things out between us.

Don't get me wrong, I was terrified. It had taken a lot for me to get up the courage to do it, but I was fed up of having to rely on Tory's family. I never thought I would say it, but I was starting to miss home. Tory's house was... hectic, to say the least.

Pulling on my jacket, I checked I had my keys before opening the front door and letting it fall shut behind me. I'd left a note on the coffee table, so they wouldn't worry about me when they got back.

I shivered. There was no going back now. Not without looking like a complete fool. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I headed down the road, my head bowed to keep out the wind.

I reached my street all too quickly, and it felt like no time at all before I was standing in front of my house, staring up at the place that had been my home for longer than I could remember.

I stood there for a good few seconds, mustering every ounce of courage I had. Finally, I approached the door and lifted a hand to press the doorbell. I shifted from foot to foot, suddenly more nervous than I had ever been in my life.

But then the door opened and that didn't matter any more because Dad was standing there, looking nothing whatsoever like what he did a week or so ago. I couldn't help it; my mouth dropped open and I gaped at him. There were huge, sagging bags under his puddle grey eyes, and it looked like he hadn't slept a wink since I left. His face was completely and utterly shaven, even the sideburns he seemed to be so fond of. He'd even had a haircut, and was wearing a clean shirt and jeans.

"Fletch?" he croaked, his voice hoarse. But sober, definitely sober. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," was all I managed to say. I cleared my throat, more to muster up some bravery than any actual need. "I think we need to talk."

He nodded, and gestured wordlessly for me to come in. Hesitating a little, I stepped over the threshold, taking in my surroundings warily. To my shock, it had undergone a similar transformation to my dad. The floors were spotless, mopped and vacuumed to within an inch of their lives. I craned my neck a little to look in the kitchen. No dirty dishes piled up high in the sink, no grimy countertops and no rubbish spilling out of the bin.

It looked, in a word, clean.

More than a little disturbed, I ventured into the living room and perched on the end of the sofa. Dad joined me, regarding me with anticipation.

"So," he said hesitantly, rubbing his hands together, "how have you been?"

"Fine," I nodded, preferring to keep to monosyllables.

"That Tory and her family looking after you?"

I only nodded again, suddenly fidgety.

"Good, good," Dad said quietly. "I'm glad."

"What about you?" I said hesitantly. "How've you been?"

He looked at me, really, properly looked at me for what seemed like an eternity before answering. "I've been better," he replied eventually. "But I've also been one hell of a lot worse."

"Right."

"I haven't had a drink since you left," he said pointedly, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Right," I repeated. I didn't know what else to say.

There was a long, saturated pause, in which neither of us said anything, did anything, looked at anything but the scrubbed-clean floor.

"I'm sorry-" we both blurted out at the same time, falling silent when we realised we'd both said the same thing.

"You first," he said awkwardly.

"No, you first," I countered.

He nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry. Not just for what happened before you left..." He winced. "Not just for that. I haven't been a good father to you since your brother died. Heck, I haven't been much of a father at all. I don't know how you put up with me."

"Me neither," I replied quietly.

He winced again. "I guess I deserve that. But I want to change, Fletch. I do. And I have." He gestured around himself wordlessly.

"Yeah, but how long will this last?" I forced myself to look him in the eye, hard and unrelenting. "How long before you're back on the booze and treating me like shit?"

"Never," he responded instantly. "I'm never going to let myself get like that. I'm getting help, Fletch."

This caught my attention. Dad, the Dad I knew, would rather cut off his right arm than ask for help.

"I'm getting counselling to deal with my problems instead of drowning them in drink," he said matter-of-factly. "At least, that's what my shrink says."

"Dad, I've been gone a week."

"Ten days," he corrected me.

"Still. You did all this in ten days?" I was a mixture of amazement and scepticism; I couldn't just believe he could change just like that.

He nodded. "I spent the first day feeling sorry for himself. After you stormed out, I convinced myself you overreacted. But when Tony came round-"

"Tory," I said pointedly.

"Right, Tory. Well when your girlfriend came round and told me you'd be staying with her, it really hit home that I'd screwed up. Big time. I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in a bottle of whisky and have done with it. But I didn't. I couldn't. I owed you that much."

I nodded tightly.

"But you’re back now, aren't you?" he said, his face lighting up with a hopefulness that was almost painful to observe.

"I don't know," I replied, and his face fell. "Yet," I added quickly. "I'm sixteen next month, Dad. I can officially move out and get my own place."

"With what money?" he said bluntly.

I shrugged. "I'll get a job."

He laughed harshly. "Like it's that simple. Thirty-year-olds with qualifications up to their ears can't get jobs in this recession. What makes you think you can?"

"I'll find a way," I retorted, stubborn as ever. "I could live on the streets if I had to."

"Do you hate me that much, Fletch?" he asked softly. "Do you hate your old dad so much you'd rather live on the street than have a home?"

"This isn't home, though," I said simply. "It hasn't been since Joe died and Mum left us."

"But it could be. Please, Fletch," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Give me one more chance. Please."

I looked at him, with his eyes more alive than I had seen them in over a year. I looked around me, at the home I barely recognised but missed more than I would say aloud. I looked up at the heavens, searching for something I would never find.

And then I looked back down at Dad, the pieces of my mind slotting themselves into place.

"If I say yes," I said slowly, "you have to promise me something."

"Anything," he said automatically.

"I get first use of the bathroom in the morning."

"Never."

"I get at least twenty quid a week in pocket money."

"Not a hope in hell."

I smiled. "I guess it's settled, then. When do you want me to move back in?"