Busted by Antony John Page B

buy herself some clothes that actually look decent, and dye her hair like every othe r woman.”
    I laugh in spite of myself. I suppose I’d never realized that Mom’s appearance bugged him too.
    Dad notices me laughing and looks over. He has a wicked grin on his face. “See, we both know some things’ll never cha nge.”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œI know not.”
    Dad looks different than I remember. He’s dyed his hair black, and there seems to be more of it than before. He’s even wearing a new tan leather jacket, which makes him look trendier, more youthful. I’m glad that at least one of my parents is taking care of themselves.
    We pull into an ugly, concrete apartment complex, where an ostentatiously large sign proudly proclaims that these are The Grovington Apartments. A part of me wants to know what w e’re doing here, but another part of me certainly doesn’t, so I remain mute and follow him out of the car. Dad steps up to the nearest first-floor apartment and unlocks the door with one of the keys on his chain. He walks in and beckons me to follow.
    â€œTa-da!” he booms, as though I’m supposed to be impressed by the stain ed, cream-colored walls and the worn sofa facing an ancient TV propped up on a beer crate.
    â€œUm, what’s going on, Dad?”
    Dad shoots me a confused look. “It’s my new place,” he explains with exaggerated enthusiasm.
    â€œBut Mom took me to your new place … that gated community.”
    Dad shakes his head and smiles. “No. Things didn’t work out with Kimberly, see?”
    I’m trying to process this, but it requires some serious work. He left his wife of twenty-two years for this woman, and now, barely eight months later, he acts like it’s no big deal that it didn’t work out.
    Dad pulls a couple cans of beer from a crate beside the sofa and hands one to me. I wait for him to take it back, say he’s kidding, but he’s already focused on his own. I hold the can tightly in both hands—it’s warm, but it’s beer so I’ll drink it anyway.
    â€œDoes it bother you that things didn’t work out?” I ask finally.
    â€œNot really, no.” He forces a laugh. “Kimberly was a total bitch.”
    I try to hide my shock, but “bitch” certainly wasn’t part of Dad’s vocabulary when he lived with us. Seems as though his drastic makeover wasn’t limited to clothes and hair.
    â€œSo . . . well, what happened?”
    â€œI’ll tell you what happened,” he mutters. “I mistook Kimberly for a smart woman—someone who’d let me be myself, without judging me the whole time. Stupid, aren’t I? First your mom, then her. I’m batting 0-for-two. Not a good average.”
    â€œSo what’s next?”
    He swigs his beer and frowns. “Well, for one thing, I’m not going to get trapped again. See, I realize now that wom en are all about trapping guys. They talk about lack of commitment and stuff like that as if it’s some big character flaw, and so you feel all guilty and before you know it—BAM, you’re engaged, or married, and it’s all over.”
    He chugs the whole beer and so I chug mine as well. Immediately my body erupts in a belch and tears sting my eyes. Dad barely seems to notice as he pulls out two more.
    â€œSee,” he continues earnestly, “there’s nothing wrong with being in a relationship per se , but you’ve got to stay on at least even terms, know what I mean? Like, if you want to have some girl, then have her.”
    â€œI do,” I tell him, although it feels like it’s someone else saying it; the beer is already working its magic. “Twice this week I had dates with different girls.”
    Dad raises his beer and knocks it against mine as a kind of masculine toast to my burgeoning libido. “That’s excellent, son. What’re they