Drip. Drip. Drip.
The faucet is leaking again. It seems as if every time I attempt to fix it, two days later, it starts leaking again. It is driving me crazy. I get up and walk over to my fridge that is never broken, and for that, I am thankful. Inside it holds just beer and milk, which is basically my diet nowadays. Empty mindedly I reach for a bottle and open it as fast as I can. The bottle cap spins around the kitchen floor. I watch it spin and spin until it finally decides to take its rest on the tile next to the other caps I haven’t bothered picking up. I step over it and make my return back to the couch. I touch the opening to my lips, and close my eyes as I take in the dark, bitter drink. As soon as I swallow, I hear it again.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Shut up! I grip the bottle tighter and lose control. Before I know what I’m doing, the shattered glass scatters across the carpet, my dark liquid courage splatters against my ex wife’s wallpaper. If my sink is already broken, my marriage already ruined, there’s no point in also cleaning up another new mess I made.
I bury my face in my hands and lean over myself, what am I even doing anymore? She would kill me if she saw our house, now only my house, in its current state.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The tears come slowly at first, but start rushing in uncontrollably. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Won’t that faucet just stop leaking already?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I return to reality when I see the noise is not coming from the kitchen sink; it is coming from my cell phone on the coffee table. It is my son.
I quickly blow my nose and answer, “Hello?” I didn’t want Blake to know I was crying just before he called.
“Hey, Dad, I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner with Clara and me tomorrow night. She’s in town for the weekend and I want you two to finally meet.” He sounds so hopeful. He hadn’t seen his childhood house since his mother moved out.
“Who? Oh, right, yeah, sure. I’d love to.” It slips my mind for a second that Clara is Blake’s girlfriend of 8 months.
“Great…” His voice trailing off, “How are you, Dad?”
He knows. He definitely knows I am not doing well. He can’t know that. “I’m doing alright.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I’m doing terribly.
“Okay… I’ll text you what time and where we’re going to go. I’ll see you.”
“Okay, bye,” Blake hangs up the phone, I wish I told him that I love him.
I leave the beer dripping down the wall so I can go to bed. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. I’ll see Blake tomorrow.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Halfway up the stairs, I hear it again. The rage builds up in me and I turn to punch a hole in the drywall. Fuck. Now I have a leaky faucet, a beer stained living room, a drinking problem, a failed marriage, and a hole in my wall. What else can I ruin? Blake’s girlfriend probably will want to break up with him after seeing how awful his father is. Who would want to marry into a family as broken as our’s?
Directly next to the new hole, the picture of me holding a 2-year old Blake hangs. It was Halloween, he was dressed up as a shark, and my wife and I were dressed as lifeguards. She looked so happy hanging onto my arm, one hand on Blake’s side. I looked like I had everything figured out. I had the beautiful, loving wife. I had the cute, perfect baby. Our house was clean. I was sober. We didn’t have a leaky faucet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I take the frame off the wall and carry it into my bedroom. Its new home is my side table. I want to wake up to it. I never want to forget that I was happy once. I never want to forget I was sober once.
More bottle caps cover the floor of my bedroom. I need to move the empty bottles to make room for the picture.
***
Three days later, Blake and his girlfriend show up at the house and knock on the front door. I quickly pull my blazer over my white button up shirt and go to greet them. I kick away more cans and bottles as I walk downstairs. I didn’t have time to clean the house before tonight (the sink would start dripping as soon as I started. How was I supposed to focus?).
I crack open the door and slip out onto the porch, locking it behind me. Blake looks at me in confusion, I know he wishes I invite them inside. But I can’t let Blake see the house like this. Then he would definitely know all of my problems. Then he would definitely change his mind about letting me meet his girlfriend. Then he would definitely put me in a rehabilitation center, far away from here and far away from him and far away from his mother.
We drive to the restaurant in silence. Blake’s hands grip the sides of the steering wheel; His girlfriend sits with her legs crossed in the backseat, gazing out the window, probably hoping to get this dinner over with already. When we pull into the parking lot, Blake gets out and opens the door for her. He holds her hand as they walk in front of me. When we reach the hostess, he says, “We have reservations at 7:30 for Hurst.” The hostess nods, picks up three menus for us, and leads us to a small table in the back. We all sit down and thank her before she returns to the front of the restaurant.
“So, uh, how long have you been dating?” I ask her, already knowing the answer.
“About a year and a half.” She replies. I had no idea it had been more than even a year. I guess I didn’t know the actual answer.
“Yeah, it has been the most amazing time. We actually had something to tell you, Dad.” Blake says. He smiles at me before looking back at her. “I proposed last weekend.”
She holds out her left hand in front of me, revealing a golden band decorated with a small diamond on her finger.
“Wow!” I put my hand under hers. “This is beautiful. We should make a toast!”
Blake laughs and shakes his head at me. “No, seriously, Dad, that’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is!” I wave over the waiter and ask for him to bring us a bottle of champagne. I pour three glasses and distribute them, “To Blake and …” My mind goes blank. I dart my eyes back and forth between my drink, Blake, and my feet. “I’m sorry.” I say finally, defeated. “Remind me of your name?”
She looks at me with a blank stare. Blake’s smile drops, “Are you kidding me?”
“I--”
“Her name is Clara.”
“To Blake and Clara!” I raise my glass towards the happy couple, despite the lack of their smiles. Clara quietly clinks my glass while looking down at the table. When I turn to Blake, he frowns at me.
“I really thought this would be good for us. I was actually excited to see you and share this with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. You weren’t answering my calls or texts. I was worried about you, Dad. I don’t know what I was expecting when I saw you for the first time, but it wasn’t this.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” There can’t be another leaky sink here. I stand up and look around the dining room. The sound came from another waitress who was pouring a glass a few tables down from us. I forgot where I was for a second.
“Excuse me?” Blake is now standing up as well. He leans towards me with two hands pressing onto the white tablecloth.
“No, Blake, I’m sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“You really are just a sorry drunk, aren’t you?” His gaze pierces into me. “Come on, Clara.”
And with that, Blake grabs Clara’s arm and leads her out of the restaurant.
***
I am laying on my kitchen tile. The sound of the dripping sink still is present in the background of my thoughts.
Drip. Drip. Drip
I have had enough.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
When is it going to stop?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
And finally, for the first time since the divorce, I ask myself, was that night really worth all of this? Was it worth losing my wife? Was it worth losing my son? Was it worth losing my sobriety?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
No, it wasn’t. In frustration and anger, I stand up and throw an empty glass bottle across the room at the sink. It shatters the window and I fall to my knees, begging the pain to cease.
***
It was winter. The faucet wasn’t leaking yet. Everything was just as it should have been. Blake was working on his college admission essay at the kitchen counter. My wife was leaning over his shoulder, pointing out where he needed to add a comma or fix his spelling. English was never his best subject -- he got that from his father. His mom, on the other hand, had two published novels.
My business was finally getting attention and I had my first big trip to New York City that weekend. I was missing Blake’s senior night for basketball, but I was going to see Wall Street. He understood and told me it was okay.
On our second night in the city, three of my coworkers and I decided to go to the rooftop bar of our hotel to get a drink. It was an insanely long day and “one drink would help take the edge off,” according to them. One drink turned into two, which turned into three. Before I knew it, I was staring at her across the floor.
Her auburn hair was tied together in a braid that traced her spine. It swayed back and forth to the beat of the music as she danced with her eyes closed. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her hips, and then she caught me. Her eyes met mine, then they fell to my lips. I felt her daring me to come closer. We stared at each other for a few minutes before another man grabbed her waist and stole her attention from me. After seeing him kiss her with such passion, I accepted my defeat. I don’t know why I wasn’t thinking about my wife. All I was thinking about was the woman with auburn hair and what her touch might feel like.
Shortly after, three drinks became four. My vision started to blur, but I could definitely still make out the silhouette of a woman sitting next to me who wasn’t there before. “I saw you watching me,” she said in an accusatory tone, “You should know I’m married.” I looked over and it was the woman with auburn hair. Now that she was closer, I could see her brown eyes and the freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. I could also see the wedding ring on her finger.
“Yeah, me too.” I replied.
“You don’t act like it.”
“Yeah, neither do you.”
She laughed softly at that and placed her hand on my thigh. I felt a chill and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
“Is that a problem?” She asked in a whisper, leaning in closer to me.
“I don’t think so.”
She kept leaning in and I wasn’t stopping her. She came closer and closer until I could feel her breath on my lips. I still wasn’t thinking about my wife and son at home when I kissed her. I wasn’t thinking about them when I led her down to my hotel room. I could tell she wasn’t thinking about her husband either. I never even learned her name. I wonder if she also had children.
***
The guilt was heavy when I came home a few days later. I couldn’t even look at my wife. Eventually, I had to tell her. I couldn’t sit on my drunken mistake any longer. I remember the tears welling in the corner of her eyes before they turned to only anger. I can still feel the burn of her slapping me against my cheek. I feel it when I wake up every morning, when I go to sleep, and when I open another bottle.
I learned the hard way there is a delicate art to fucking up. I definitely mastered this art.
***
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I can’t escape the leaky faucet in my kitchen. Shards of glass from the broken window cover the counter and the tile. I can’t fix it by myself. So, I get off of my knees and walk to the landline, carefully stepping around the shattered glass. I dial the number of a plumber I found online and they ask me what I need.
“I need help.”
