Kay undoes her seatbelt and gets out of the car. She groans when she sees me doing the same.
“Come on, Dad. I’m not a child anymore.”
“You’re spending time with people I don’t know. I’d like to meet them.”
Wow, I’m really going for the dad-of-the-year award here. Great performance. Perfect delivery.
“How about your rules? What if they recognize you?”
That ship has sailed already.
“It’s okay. I trust your boss won’t say anything.”
She gives me herdon’t bullshit melook, but I ignore it and pretend I don’t know where she’s headed. I’ve noticed the door on the side of the soup kitchen building before, but the two times I’ve been here, I used the main door that gives direct access to the hall.
Suddenly it dawns on me that I have no clue what I’m going to say to Tyler. Okay, so initially, I didn’t know this is where Kay volunteers, but equally, I don’t need to go inside. I can easily go back to the car and wait for Kay or come back later to pick her up.
“Please don’t be weird,” she says as we walk through the door into a hallway.
“Kay,” I call, deciding in that split moment to back out.
She turns around at the same time Tyler comes into the hallway.
“Hi, Kaylei—” He stops when he sees me and then looks at her before his eyes settle back on me.
“Hi, Mr. David,” Kay says. “Um, this is my dad. He gave me a lift because it’s snowing, but he’s going now.” She grabs my arm to turn me toward the door.
“Hi, Tyler.”
Kay gasps. “Wait, you know who Mr. David is?”
“You could say that,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Tyler.
“Ugh, why can’t I have a normal parent?” Kay groans. “I’m going to help Emy and Cathy.” She hangs her coat on the rack in the hallway and goes through double doors that look like they lead to a kitchen.
“You have a daughter?” is the first thing out of his mouth.
“You changed your name.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same.”
“I was here first.”
He turns back to the door he came out of. I follow him, stopping only a few steps from where he’s standing in front of a large desk.
There’s a laptop and a few neat rows of paperwork on it. Behind, there’s a large whiteboard with football plays written on it. There’s also a schedule for the soup kitchen and a shopping list.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says with his back to me.
“Why?”
“Because.”
His shoulders slump, and I put my hands in the pockets of my coat because the need to put my arms around him contradicts how I should feel about seeing him after all these years.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
