“I promise.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Now tell me more about this hockey coaching gig. Do you like it?”
So I tell him everything - about working with goalies, about helping players get better. Nothing complicated, just the simple stuff. Tate talks about playing hockey, tells stories about gamesand saves and what it’s like to be on the ice. My father listens with rapt attention.
We stay for two hours. By the time we’re ready to leave, my father’s getting tired, but he’s still lucid.
“Will you come back soon?” he asks, his voice groggy.
“Yeah, Dad. I’ll come back soon.”
“Bring Tate with you. I like him. He seems like a keeper.”
I smile. “He definitely is.”
When I hug him, his bones practically protrude through his skin, he’s so frail. But he’s still my father, still the man who taught me that being strong doesn’t mean you don’t get scared, it means you do what needs to be done even when you’re scared.
Once we’re in the truck and driving back toward the city, Tate reaches over and takes my hand.
“How do you feel?”
“Better. Lighter, maybe.”
“He’s proud of you.”
“He doesn’t know half the stuff I’ve done.”
“He knows the important stuff. He knows you’re a good man who’s found someone to love.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’s everything.”
We drive without talking for a while. I think about how maybe being good isn’t about being perfect. Maybe it’s about trying to do the right thing when everything’s fucked beyond recognition.
“Tate?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For coming with me. For being there.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to. You could have walked away after everything that happened. You could have decided I was too fucked up to be worth the trouble.”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t walk away from people you love.” He squeezes my hand. “And I’m not walking away from you. Ever.”
I lean back, watch the city lights get closer. I can’t believe how things have turned out, how six weeks ago, I was staring down the barrel of a gun thinking I was going to die and nobody would care. Now I’m sitting next to Tate, driving back from seeing my father who’s proud of me despite everything.
And I have people who know who I am and still stick around.
“Where to now?” Tate asks.
“Home.”
