Ned thinks, sometimes, that there's an inertia to his emotions. That it can take a deal of effort to get them going, but once they are, it takes a much greater effort to stop them. He feels as if he is hurtling forward without brakes, without an idea of how to disengage all that hurt and unhappiness and just answer Ginsberg's question like a normal human being.
He rakes his hands through his hair, feels paralyzed by half a dozen unappealing choices. Which one of them is the least likely to make Ginsberg head for the door and never come back? He buries his face in his hands.
"You shouldn't apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you over, when I'm like this. I can't expect you to- how are you supposed to know what not to say if I don't tell you?" That inertia is carrying him forward, his words coming at an increasing speed, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. Touchy subject. If you hadn't guessed." It was meant to be a joke, but it's a feeble stab at humor.
And at this point, why not just tell him? Ginsberg must have guessed already it's related to his father. He's not stupid. Maybe if Ned just tells him, he'll understand that it's not in the vein of common petty resentments, that his overreaction is, if not justified, comprehensible.
"I never had any of that." His voice cracks again, the words coming tumbling out in a rush, like a dam bursting, "No one wondered why I didn't have a date to prom, or tried to set me up, or asked me stupid questions about my life. I guess the reason why I don't get you wanting to be left alone is I've been on my own since I was nine and I'd give anything just to have a father who remembers I exist."
He can feel his shoulders shaking, the cracks in his facade getting wider. This has been coming all day. His mistake was to invite Ginsberg here to witness it. There's no way he'll want to stick around after this, Ned thinks, with almost a kind of triumph that his earlier dire prophecy is fulfilling itself. He'll be disgusted and irritated, maybe with a dash of pity (since he's such a great guy). He'll leave and never call again and Ned won't have anyone to blame but himself.
As these thoughts are circling he keeps talking, almost without being conscious of what he says, "A week after my mother died, he left me at the boarding school and told me he'd be back, only that was a lie. He didn't come back. Or write. Or call. For a year. Then he sent a postcard," here Ned's voice grows suddenly bitter, "One of those pre-printed ones, that people send to everyone they know when they move, with their new address. So I thought... he wanted a new house to start over in, one that wouldn't remind him-" Ned breaks off, with a little shake of his head, expression momentarily wavering closer to tears before he pulls the threads of his composure back in place, "I snuck out of school to surprise him. I thought I'd get there before he could even leave to come pick me up. But when I got there he had a new wife and new sons, so it kind of ruined my big gesture. He was never going to come pick me up. He didn't even fucking recognize me."
no subject
He rakes his hands through his hair, feels paralyzed by half a dozen unappealing choices. Which one of them is the least likely to make Ginsberg head for the door and never come back? He buries his face in his hands.
"You shouldn't apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you over, when I'm like this. I can't expect you to- how are you supposed to know what not to say if I don't tell you?" That inertia is carrying him forward, his words coming at an increasing speed, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. Touchy subject. If you hadn't guessed." It was meant to be a joke, but it's a feeble stab at humor.
And at this point, why not just tell him? Ginsberg must have guessed already it's related to his father. He's not stupid. Maybe if Ned just tells him, he'll understand that it's not in the vein of common petty resentments, that his overreaction is, if not justified, comprehensible.
"I never had any of that." His voice cracks again, the words coming tumbling out in a rush, like a dam bursting, "No one wondered why I didn't have a date to prom, or tried to set me up, or asked me stupid questions about my life. I guess the reason why I don't get you wanting to be left alone is I've been on my own since I was nine and I'd give anything just to have a father who remembers I exist."
He can feel his shoulders shaking, the cracks in his facade getting wider. This has been coming all day. His mistake was to invite Ginsberg here to witness it. There's no way he'll want to stick around after this, Ned thinks, with almost a kind of triumph that his earlier dire prophecy is fulfilling itself. He'll be disgusted and irritated, maybe with a dash of pity (since he's such a great guy). He'll leave and never call again and Ned won't have anyone to blame but himself.
As these thoughts are circling he keeps talking, almost without being conscious of what he says, "A week after my mother died, he left me at the boarding school and told me he'd be back, only that was a lie. He didn't come back. Or write. Or call. For a year. Then he sent a postcard," here Ned's voice grows suddenly bitter, "One of those pre-printed ones, that people send to everyone they know when they move, with their new address. So I thought... he wanted a new house to start over in, one that wouldn't remind him-" Ned breaks off, with a little shake of his head, expression momentarily wavering closer to tears before he pulls the threads of his composure back in place, "I snuck out of school to surprise him. I thought I'd get there before he could even leave to come pick me up. But when I got there he had a new wife and new sons, so it kind of ruined my big gesture. He was never going to come pick me up. He didn't even fucking recognize me."