But then the doubts would creep in. Voices that said he’d never measure up. Memories that told him he’d fallen short before.
A vision of his twelve-year-old self came to mind. There he was, boarding a bus, letter in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of his dad.
After a whole lot of reluctance, Mom had given Sawyer the address so he could send a letter. He lived just a few towns away. What she hadn’t expected was for Sawyer to dig into his race car bank, skip school, and catch a bus to go find the guy’s house himself.
He’d gotten answers to all of his questions over the years. At least the ones Mom could answer.
“Does my dad know about me?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know when my birthday is?”
“Yep.”
“Did he ever celebrate one with us?”
“No, bud. He didn’t stick around long enough.”
“Do you think he ever thinks about me?”
“Yes, I’m sure he does.”
“Then why doesn’t he ever come and see me? I bet he’d be surprised to see how tall I am.”
“I bet so too.”
“Does he like Mario Andretti too? I bet that’s where I get it from.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. That’s exactly where you got it.”
Mom often wore that same sad smile when answering. Back then, he figured she worried about Sawyer liking his dad more than her. In retrospect, he realized she was worried he’d get his heart broken by a man who wanted nothing to do with him, even if Sawyer was his own flesh and blood.
It grew late before his father pulled into the drive. Good thing he’d told Mom he was going to a friends’ house for dinner after school.
He sat behind a large boulder at the corner of the property, waiting as the sun moved closer to the horizon, reflecting on the envelope he’d tucked lovingly into the mailbox.To Jackson Coller.
The letter didn’t say much. Just that Sawyer wanted to meet him one day. He’d suggested that—since they both liked fast cars—maybe they could go to the Daytona 500 together sometime.
He included a recent school photo, and closed the letter with a few simple words.
It’s okay if you don’t want to call or come see me right away. Just keep my picture. It has my number and address on it. Hope to see you soon.
Love, your son Sawyer Kingsley.
It was like looking at a movie star or something when he finally pulled up and got out of the car—a shiny black Camaro. It had taken everything in Sawyer not to run up to him and introduce himself right then. Ask to hop in his car and go for a spin.
But he stayed in place, certain that, after getting his letter and seeing his picture and hearing about how much they had in common, his dad would call him. The picture would probably go on the fridge. Or maybe in his wallet. Some parents liked to do that.
He watched, fidgeting with the laces of his high top shoes as the guy—a perfect stranger, really— pulled a stack of mail from the box. Sawyer’s letter sat right on top, and it must have gotten his attention too, because he pinned the others beneath his arm to tear it open.
Sawyer watched for his reaction. If it was good, maybe he could come out from his hiding place and let him know he was there.
But as he pulled out the letter, began reading it with narrowed eyes, deep, angry-looking lines creased his forehead. He flipped the letter over to look at the back, which was blank, before tugging the small wallet-sized photo from the envelope.
He shook his head as he scrutinized it. Back and forth while the lines in his face grew deeper. Suddenly, a voice called out from the porch. A woman stood there. Tall with blond hair in a pink dress.
“Jackson?”
