#chtask013

it’s almost too much for his brain to comprehend when his, his - what was rosa to him anyway? she couldn’t be his girlfriend. there wasn’t any level of feeling or commitment to justify calling her his girlfriend. a regular fling would be more like it, someone that daniel would call when he is horny and not completely drunk out of his mind. she never seemed to mind and she always seemed to understand they have no relationship whatsoever, so daniel can’t understand when she arrives at eleven in the morning in his apartment. who even is awake this early. 

but then, her words make no sense. rosa looks at him, only twenty years old and terrified and she tells him, really puts these words out into the world. 

i’m pregnant, daniel. she tells him. and i know it’s yours. 

so what? she wants- wants some sort of money, so she can have this child. daniel doesn’t need to worry about it though, because rosa tells him - she’s giving up their child for adoption. which is awesome - great, even. at least she’s not thinking of abortion. but then again, how many kids do they know whose life in the system wasn’t good? and why he is wide awake and sober in the morning thinking of an unborn child? 

he calls his sister. asks her opinion, asks her if she thinks he can do it, if he really tries his best and he goes to rehab. she tells him yes and bless her soul, he wants to try. so daniel calls his parents next. he’s a sobbing mess, nearly incoherent as he begs his parents to please. please help him. please help him to keep his baby. 

give him a chance to be a good father. a better man. 

—  —  —  — 

daniel leaves hope to rest for the night with a kiss on the forehead. he smiles. he still feels like the luckiest man alive to have the privilege to raise such an amazing little girl like hope. she gave him everything he’s proud of today. he owes everything to her. 

he walks away from her bedroom, steps getting heavier as he reaches the kitchen. he pulls drawers open and retrieves a small notepad and a pen. he’s been thinking about the task their mayor put upon them, but hasn’t been able to write anything down yet. 

he scribbles, my greatest fear is writing this. 

the paper is ripped of course and daniel turns into a ball before he tosses it on the trash. he sighs, exasperated as he looks into the menacing page of white. writing about his feelings was always the worst part of therapy for him. because when he speaks, evidence is erased. anything you write down weights more it seems, and he doesn’t like to look inside his own fears. but then he straightens his back, taps his fingers against the island marble top and starts writing. 

“i’ve grown up a kid that thought he would never know fear in his life. everything was made in a whim. the old me didn’t care about a thing - not himself, not his family, not his friends. when nothing is valuable, there isn’t a thing to inspire fear. it’s a paradox: there isn’t fear without hope. 

but again, is there anything at all without hope? she inspired me and she still inspires me to be a good man. she is all the reason i’m trying to make the world a little better, just so she won’t have to grow up surrounded by cruelty. she is my everything, the only light in my life and the only thing that keeps me moving forward. 

she’s getting so smart, though. she was small and teethless just yesterday and now she’s grown and so beautiful and she makes all the best questions and i adore her more every day. however she’s also asking the worst questions, like

who’s my mother?

why aren’t you married?

and i’m not ready to answer those things because up until now i could pretend i’m this amazing person. i am her knight in shining armor. i’m her superhero. but even i know that i’m not that good enough to live up to those expectations. 

so my greatest fear is to disappoint my hope. i’m terrified of the prospect of seeing her losing her faith in me and thinking i’m no longer a good man, a man good enough to be her papa. my relationship with her is my most important thing. there isn’t anything in this world that can even begin to compare. it kills me to think that this can fall apart because of my past. it kills me that i might be breaking my promise. 

harley’s sixteen when he graduates anyway. he watches someone else make the valedictorian’s speech. old habits die hard, and he runs his speech against theirs quietly. he claps when they finish, and then he walks the stage and he gets his diploma. people linger around the venue long after the ceremony ends, but harley doesn’t really stick around. he finds his mom, and she smiles at him and hugs him. he hugs her back. she says, lip trembling, we’re so proud of you, the first time she’s ever said it, and harley thinks about it all the way to the car. he thinks about the empty passenger’s seat when he climbs in. we, she said. are his moms finally talking again? he wonders. when they get home, is his other mom going to be there again, moved in again, part of their family again?

his mother doesn’t make it two blocks; harley hears her breathing picking up moments before she eases the car to a stop on the side of the road, and she answers his questions when she puts her face in her hands.

harley’s sixteen when he first sees his ma cry. his ma says, i miss her. she says, god, i’m so sorry. harley’s sixteen, and no one’s taught him how to make people feel better when they cry like this, but it’s his mom, which means he has to try. he tells her what he’d want someone to say to him. he tells her, you’re always gonna have me, and he tells her, it’s okay. we’re gonna be okay.

he’s sixteen when he starts picking up full-time shifts at the shop. his ma tells him, you should be in school, and he tells her, grinning, but who would you yell at to do the laundry? his ma clicks her tongue every time, but she smiles, and somewhere there harley knows there’s a thank you. he tucks away his acceptance letters away with his old folders and notebooks. he ignores the claustrophobia that mounts throughout the summer, through the clouds of smoke of people driving away in their cars, bags packed, faces giddy. people that were too old for him in school-- people that he never really knew because of it. people that make shame curdle in his stomach anyway. 

harley’s twenty-two when he writes it out for the first time: i’m scared of not being enough. he’s twenty-two and he’s not a kid anymore, so there’s nothing that justifies how much he cries over that stupid piece of paper, but he does it anyway and can’t even finish the thing. he has to stick a bag of frozen peas over his eyes and sleep it off in the garage.

in the morning, he’s twenty-two and a day older, and rereading what he wrote so far feels like reading a note someone else had left behind for him. the words feel alien, but that’s fine-- that makes it more bearable. harley adds heights under it. then spiders. big spiders, he writes, but also really little ones, because then how the fuck do you keep track of where they go?, and some time later when he’s carefully traced the certainty of each letter, he folds up the paper for whenever this balloon thing’s supposed to happen and tucks it away.

then he goes back to work.

--

i’m scared of not doing enough. i’m scared of not being enough. i’m scared my friends don’t really like me. i’m scared they’ll realize they could do more and do better and that they’ll find more and find better. i’m scared my mom thinks i want to leave her too. i’m scared that she doesn’t know i love her, that i’d never ever ever do that to her. i’m scared that i’m never gonna be able to tell her that. why can’t i tell people that? how’s throwing a stupid balloon supposed to help me figure th