Nowing Without Nowing

This story was written for the

750 Word Project 2025

. Below this line are exactly 750 words:

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"Why, Dylan?"

I'd known this was coming, but that didn't make it any easier.

"Because she cheated on me, Dad." Mitch wasn't my actual father, but he might as well have been. I might as well have been his son, too.

His face went through all the expected expressions--surprise, disbelief, anger--before settling on "serious," all furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. "Bullshit. Christine loves you."

"Let's not do this out here." I moved aside to let him into my hotel room, then sat on the bed while he took the couch.

"What did she tell you?"

"That you accused her of sleeping around and stormed out of the apartment." He leaned forward, indignation in his voice. "And then you had her served? Barely a day later? I thought better of you."

That hurt; I won't lie. "She left some things out, then. I know she cheated on me, and... Look, I know because..."

How to say this? That I knew because his daughter suddenly fucked wrong? That she seemed like an alien in Christine's skin? Delicately, I guess. "I've only ever been with Chrissie. Since we were kids, she's been the one for me." He nodded. "But something's been wrong for a few months, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. When we were... together the last time, I knew why: because she'd cheated."

Mitch blanched; no father wants to think about their daughter like that. Still, he rallied quickly. "How can you be sure?"

"I just am. It wasn't anything that she did exactly. But she was wrong. It was wrong."

My father-in-law scoffed, "'It was wrong?' What the hell does that mean?"

"Just... Just wrong. Like she was guilty. Trying too hard. But..." Words failed me; a rare occurrence, but that lack gave me an idea. The only thing I'd ever loved as much as Chrissie was writing. "Being with her that night was like reading a passage of text where the phrasing was off."

He settled back, dubious. "Explain."

"A while back, this video about adjectives and their order was going around. The example I remember was 'fun little red rubber ball.' If I say that, you can easily visualize what I'm talking about, right? It's descriptive.

"Almost as important, though, it sounds right. If I instead say 'rubber red little fun ball,' it's... wrong. You can still visualize it, and I'm not breaking any hard grammar rules like putting the noun first, but it feels weird. It's the kind of mistake a non-native speaker might make, someone who knows the rules they teach in school, but not the smaller quirks.

"That's what I mean. Before, Chrissie and I had always been in sync, and then we weren't. And it wasn't... I've seen her in her ups and downs, good moods and bad, sickness and in health, all of it. This wasn't that."

"That's..." He still didn't seem convinced. "You're willing to throw twelve years away for that? A guess?"

I sighed, uncertain how to get it across. Then, a memory came to me. "Do you remember my first date with Chrissie? Fourteen years old, scared out of my mind because her dad insisted on driving us?"

He laughed warmly; I'd miss that. "Yeah. I was scared, too. My little girl growing up."

"After the date, while driving me home, you got this look on your face. When you pulled over and told me to get out, I thought you were going to leave me in a ditch somewhere. Instead, you popped the hood and had me hold the flashlight."

I had no idea what I was looking at back then; that came later, when Mitch took me under his wing. My dad had never really been around, and he certainly hadn't taught me anything about cars. I still didn't know cars, though, not like Mitch did, especially not the '68 Mustang GT he'd inherited from his father.

Mitch's eyes slipped away from mine as he finally understood. "The spark plug."

"Yeah. The engine hadn't started misfiring yet, but it was going to. You couldn't tell me how you knew that. You just did."

He sat for a moment, head bowed, then rose to leave. "I'm sorry, son."

"Me too." I walked him to the door, where he shook my hand and pulled me into a bear hug one last time. His eyes glistened in the harsh exterior light as he turned; mine did too. I'd lost a father, and he a son. Who wouldn't mourn that?