I wouldn’t allow it. “Thanks,” I said. “Well, I guess we’re at the bottom of the hill.”
“You don’t want an explanation?” he asked. “No,” I said. “I’m good.
I think you’re a pathetic alcoholic who says fancy things to get attention like a really precocious eleven-year-old
and I feel super bad for you.
But yeah, no, you’re not the guy who wrote An Imperial Affliction anymore,
so you couldn’t sequel it even if you wanted to.
Thanks, though. Have an excellent life.” “But—” “Thanks for the booze,” I said. “Now get out of the car.”
He looked scolded. Dad had stopped the car and we just idled there below Gus’s grave for a minute
until Van Houten opened the door and, finally silent, left.
As we drove away, I watched through the back window as he took a drink and raised the bottle in my direction, as if toasting me.
His eyes looked so sad. I felt kinda bad for him, to be honest.
We finally got home around six, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep,
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