“Elliot Lash speaking,” he answered.
“Elliot, it’s Holden Parish.” I inhaled. Exhaled. “Let’s write a book.”
Thirty
River
Two years later
“Hello?” I said, pushing open the door to Dad’s house. “I have pizza.”
I juggled the box and the six-pack of Coke on top and shut the door behind me. The house was quiet.
“Hello?” I called again.
“In here,” Dad’s voice came from the den.
My father had the blinds drawn and sat in his recliner, feet up, watching the 2003 Niners-Giants wild-card game.
Dad smiled as I came in. “Smells great. Let’s eat in here, okay?”
I frowned. “Where’s Amelia?”
“Out. She met some loudmouth in a Camaro, and he took her to the boardwalk.”
I sank down in the chair beside his. “She knew I was coming, right?”
“Who knows what’s going through her head,” he said, his eyes on the screen.
I gritted my teeth. I’d moved out of the house six months ago to my own apartment not far from the shop. Amelia hadn’t taken it well but had never missed my twice-weekly dinner visits.
“What’s this guy like?” I asked, setting the pizza box on the coffee table and handing my dad a napkin and a Coke.
“You know the type—bad boy, leather jacket, no ambition tospeak of.”
My jaw clenched. My sister was on the verge of dropping out of high school and had recently added a parade of lowlife guys with “no ambition to speak of” to her downward spiral.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“What can we do?”
“You could try talking to her, Dad,” I said, trying to keep the bitter accusation out of my mouth.
“I have, but she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want my advice, son. She needs her mom.”
So do I.
I buried the thought. I had enough shit to deal with without diving into that black pit too.
Dad and I ate pizza and watched the game.
“Look at that,” Dad said as Jeff Garcia evaded a half dozen tackles and ran for twenty yards. “You had moves like that, River. A sixth sense about where the defenders were coming from. You could see running lanes before they opened while still keeping an eye on the receivers. All options on the table.”
“Yeah, I did.” I swallowed a lump of pizza that tasted like clay.
“I was talking to Sam Blaylock the other day. He says both Chance and Donte Weatherly are likely to go early in this year’s draft. Isn’t that something?”
“Great,” I said dully.
