“Here you go, hon,” she says, offering me a sympathetic smile as she tucks the small tray of sugars and cup of cream next to the steaming mug in front of me.
“Thanks, Daisy,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat in an effort to convey just how miserable this is making me. I get the sense she understands.
“You ready to order?” She pulls a pen from behind her ear, and my dad flips over the simple laminated menu. Earl’s isn’treally a breakfast joint, it’s a bar. I figured it would be pretty low-key this morning, which is why I picked it.
“What’s good here?” My dad pulls a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and struggles to unfold them then slip them on his face. I don’t remember glasses when I was young. He’s becoming an old man. I’m not even sure how old he is. I just know he was always older than Mom, and much older than me.
And he was terrifying.
“We’ll both have the eggs and toast,” I say, pulling a twenty from my wallet and sliding it on the table.
“No, no. I said my treat,” my dad says, pushing the money toward me.
I flatten my hand on the half closest to me, and he stops.
“I don’t have a lot of time. Just let me pay. And the eggs are good.” I’m making that last part up. I’ve only ever had a beer here, and maybe some shelled peanuts. I’m not a big party guy, so when the team went out to celebrate before Holly came, I rarely stayed long. Now, I have other people in my life to celebrate good games with.
“Thank you,” my dad says under his breath. He pulls his glasses off and tucks them in the breast pocket of his shirt.
“Sure.” I pour a little creamer into my coffee, then stir it with the spoon before testing the heat level with a cautious sip. It’s strong. That’s good. I’m going to need it.
“So, you have a game today, huh?”
I take another sip and eye my father over the rim of the mug.
“Yeah, it’s a series. That’s how it works.” I’m being short with him, and my lungs squeeze with guilt. I hate that I feel guilty, though, because he doesn’t deserve me being nice. I really should talk to someone about my complicated feelings. I don’t want my relationship with either of my parents to color my relationship with Holly.
“Right, yeah. I remember. You know, I taught you how to throw a ball.” He smiles tentatively, while my mouth remains a hard line.
“Hmm,” I drone. I don’t remember that, but I suppose it’s possible. I don’t remember much about those early years, before I was five. By the time I was in school, though, he was in full-on criminal mode.
My dad leans into the table and pulls his hands together, fidgeting.
“That girl seems nice. She’s really not your wife, huh?” he pries.
I’m tempted to remain silent, but I don’t want him making assumptions about Lindsey. I’d rather stick with the story she created.
“She’s a friend. She and her kids needed a place to stay. It works out,” I say, leaving it at that. My father’s stare lingers, though, and there’s something sinister about the curl of his lip. I’m not sure he’s buying the story we sold him.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time, deflating when I see I’ve only been sitting here for six minutes.
“You know, I thought about you a lot when I was in.” His gaze squares on mine suddenly, and it makes me wonder if he’s rehearsed this part.
“Oh, yeah?” I draw in a deep breath, knowing I should stop there, but fuck it. “You think about those times I tried to visit or called, and you denied me?”
I hold his stare until he looks away, wanting him to feel uncomfortable. Yet when he does, I squirm in my seat. What the fuck is this?
“I wasn’t in a good place,” he says.
“No shit! You were in prison. For selling drugs. And being involved in a murder or two.” He needs to know I’ve read the reports. It’s not like I had a mom who protected me from theworst. Hell, she threw the paperwork on the coffee table when it arrived. It was right there for me to weed through.
“I know I haven’t been a good man . . . a good father.”
I huff with a short laugh.
Daisy brings out our plates, but I’m too sick to eat anything, so I push mine toward my father. He tilts his head and looks at me with a disappointed expression. He used to get that look in his eyes before slapping me when I was young. I can practically feel the sting on my cheek.
“Anything else?” Daisy says, glancing between us.
