Wet Glow

Frank rubbed at his temple, the cheap coffee from the gas station still hot but doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Rain had finally let up, but the streets outside were black mirrors, catching every lurid flash from the liquor store sign, the blinking neon of the late-night diner. Ten past midnight. Leo was late. Again. The wipers on his beat-up Ford Escort made a sad, rhythmic thwack-scrape, like a worn-out heart.

He squinted, trying to make out figures through the steam clouding his breath on the windshield. A group of kids spilled out of the arcade, all skinny limbs and loud laughter, disappearing into the slick alleyways. Not Leo. Leo was probably still with that new crowd, the ones with the too-tight jeans and the vacant stares. Frank felt a familiar knot tighten in his gut, a mix of fear and sheer, blinding exhaustion. He’d just finished a double, smelling of fry grease and stale beer, and all he wanted was his bed. Instead, he was here, a silent sentinel in the city’s grimy glow.

Then, a shadow detached itself from the doorway of the old movie theater, now a derelict husk. Leo. Hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep into pockets, a walk that tried to be nonchalant but just looked heavy. Frank watched him for a beat, the kid’s silhouette distorted and stretched in the puddle at his feet, framed by the gaudy pink and blue of a tattoo parlor sign across the street. He looked smaller than Frank remembered, or maybe just more alone.

Frank leaned over, popped the passenger door. "Get in," he grunted, the words scraped from the bottom of his throat. Leo slid in, the cold, damp air clinging to him. He didn’t look at Frank, just stared straight ahead through the windshield, his profile hard and unreadable. The car smelled suddenly of damp wool and something else, something sweet and vaguely burnt. Frank didn’t ask. Not yet.

"You were supposed to be home by eleven," Frank said, his voice level, too level. He pulled out into the street, the tires hissing on the wet asphalt. The world outside was a smear of light and dark, streaks of red taillights, sudden bursts of yellow from streetlamps. Leo shrugged, a small, barely perceptible movement. "Lost track of time."

"Lost track of time," Frank repeated, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Funny how that happens every damn night." He gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white. The old car rattled and hummed, a constant vibration under his feet. "Where were you?"

"Just... with friends." Leo’s voice was low, flat. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.

"Friends? The ones who got you suspended last month? The ones who think it's funny to spray paint the school?" Frank didn't mean to yell, but the words just came, a dam breaking. "Don't lie to me, Leo. I'm too tired for this."

Silence settled, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the car’s engine and the distant wail of a siren. They passed a diner, its orange neon sign casting a sickly, warm glow over the pavement. Frank caught a flash of his own tired eyes in the rearview mirror, then Leo’s, quickly averted.

"I wasn't doing anything, Dad," Leo finally mumbled, still not looking at him. "Just... hanging out."

"Hanging out where? What kinda hanging out keeps you out past midnight, in the rain, after I've worked a sixteen-hour shift?" Frank's voice cracked a little at the end, betraying the exhaustion he’d been trying to hide. He pulled up to a red light. The entire corner was a kaleidoscope of color reflected in a huge puddle: the flashing 'BAR' sign, the green of the pharmacy, the lurid yellow of a taxi idling nearby. Frank stared into it, seeing not just the lights, but a twisted version of his own face, a stranger.

He remembered being Leo’s age, sneaking out, trying to prove something to himself, to his own old man. He remembered the feeling of invincibility, the stupid decisions. But he’d had a different life, different choices. He’d always sworn he’d do better for his kid.

"Look, Dad, I get it, you're mad," Leo said, breaking the quiet. His voice had a sharp edge, that teenage indignation. "But it's not like I'm doing anything bad. I’m not… I’m not you." The last words were almost whispered, but they landed with the force of a punch.

Frank’s breath hitched. He turned to Leo then, fully, ignoring the cars behind them honking faintly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Leo flinched, then doubled down, looking at him now, eyes narrowed. "You know what it means. You're always on my back, always talking about 'getting into trouble.' You act like you never messed up. You act like you're perfect."

The light changed. Frank floored it, the old engine roaring in protest. He didn’t speak for a long minute, just drove, the neon streaks blurring into a single, frantic line. His chest felt tight, a dull ache spreading behind his ribs. He had messed up. More times than he could count. Losing Leo's mom, barely keeping this crummy apartment, working himself to the bone just to keep their heads above water. Was that what Leo saw? Just his failures?

He pulled up to their apartment building, the dark brick façade looking even grimmer under the single, flickering streetlamp. The rain had started again, a soft drizzle. He killed the engine. The silence was absolute, heavier than before.

"I'm not perfect, Leo," Frank finally said, his voice rough. He stared at his hands on the wheel. "Never said I was. I just... I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did. That's all." He lifted his gaze, met Leo's in the dim interior of the car. The boy's face was still closed off, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something Frank couldn’t quite name. Resignation? Understanding?

Leo unbuckled his seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet. He opened the door. The apartment entrance looked cold and uninviting, a dark mouth. He paused, one foot on the slick pavement, the other still in the car. He looked back at Frank, then at the city lights reflecting in the wet street. A hundred tiny, distorted stars winking back at them.

"Night, Dad," he said, and closed the door without waiting for a reply. Frank watched him walk away, a skinny figure disappearing into the drizzle, swallowed by the gloom and the distant, artificial glow.