“We’re good, Daise. Thanks.” I give her a tired, tight smile.
“You bet.” She pats my shoulder, then moves on to take the order of a man at the end of the bar. He’s the only other person in this joint at this hour.
“They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.” My father nudges the plate toward me a few inches. I shake my head.
“I’m not hungry. Let’s just get this over with. What is it you want?” I lean back in my chair, gripping my thighs. I’m wearing dress slacks and the same shirt I wore to court. The team rules are players dress nice for road trips, like they do in the majors. I’m miserable, though. Wearing this makes me feel even more like a banker, which is what I’m pretty sure this impromptu visit is really about.
“I don’t want anything. Except, maybe, to spend a little time with my son.”
I laugh again, and just like that, his fragile fist grows stronger, coming down on the table with enough of a bang that it shakes the silverware and draws Daisy’s gaze from across the bar. I tuck my tongue inside my cheek and lean to the side, waving Daisy off. She doesn’t deserve this shit going down in her bar. My bad for bringing it here.
“I’m sorry,” he says. I don’t laugh this time, though I want to. And that’s our story at play again, the same after all these years. He blows up, and I react by learning my lesson.
“I really am working on that. My anger. It’s something I spent time on in prison. They had me seeing one of those therapists. The person was always changing, though. Not a lot of tenure in the prison health system.” He shakes with a gurgling laugh that makes me wonder if he’s sick. He probably is dying of lots of things, all brought on by his lifestyle. I’m sure none of them will kill him quickly.
“Maybe we can do this again in ten years. When you get better at controlling your temper.” I brace myself for another outburst, but he laughs instead, pointing a finger at me before taking a slice of toast and biting off a corner.
“You’re funny. You get that from me,” he says, chewing with his mouth full. His toast is dry, and crumbs stick to his cracking lips.
“Yeah, that’s what Mom always told me about you. ‘Your father, he’s a riot.’” My dry tone makes the point, and my father’s smile immediately drops to a straight line. He tosses the half-eaten piece of toast back to the plate, then rubs his hands together while his elbows rest on the table.
“Come on, son. All I need is one chance to prove it to you. Maybe a little boost to help get me back on my feet, too. You know, I could help you out a little, huh? I’m sure you’re busy. You probably have a lot of places to go. I could house sit for you while you’re gone. I could watch after that roommate of yours, help with her kids. Or . . . hey, maybe hire me as your driver. I was always good at driving, and?—”
“I can’t do this,” I say, standing and pulling another forty bucks from my wallet. I press the bills on the table in front of my father, between the two plates of food, then look up at him through my lashes. That’s what I was waiting for—the grift. Heknows I’m doing all right for myself, despite the hand I was dealt. He’s come to collect.
“My home is off-limits to you. My roommate does not need your help. I do not need your help. And I’m not giving you a penny more than this.” I tap my index finger on Andrew Jackson’s face.
I glance at Daisy when I stand, and she pulls her attention up from the coffee she’s pouring for the other diner long enough to meet my gaze and shake her head in sympathy. I’m glad she’s the only one to witness this moment. She doesn’t make me feel ashamed.
“You’ll change your mind one day, maybe regret this,” he says as I walk away.
I hold up a hand as he continues with his new tactics.
“I won’t live forever. I’m an old man, and you and I won’t have many shots at fixing this,” he says.
I pause at the door. I should leave without another word, but I just can’t let him have the final say.
“Then, maybe you shouldn’t have broken us to shit, Dad. That’s on you.” I hit him with a hard glare and hold in the other vitriol I’d love to spew. My disdain is obvious, and I don’t need to practice forgiveness today. Besides, he’ll somehow work me into paying for it. That’s what he does.
I march through the exit and head straight to my SUV. I fire the engine up remotely, so it’s ready to go when I climb in. I focus on the interior of Earl’s one last time before I pull away, though, and catch my father folding the bills I left on the table, including the one meant to pay the bill. He stands and pushes them into his front pocket. My gut twists.
I’ll stop in again when I get back from this road trip to cover the bill. My dad’s about to dine and dash; I’m sure of it. I’m just not going to stick around to be his getaway driver.
I expect to play like shit today, given the mood I was in when I got on the bus. And my rage only got hotter the closer we got to the Ozark stadium. But instead of letting it tear me down and riddle my glove with errors, I channel it into strength. I hit my first homerun as a Maverick by taking the first pitch I see—four-twenty, over the bleachers and into a swamp behind the right field wall. Then, in the sixth inning, I hit my second.
I should be living it up, celebrating my great game in the hotel bar with the guys. But instead, all I want to do is crawl into bed and turn off the lights, maybe flip through a few videos of Holly on my phone.
I’m the only one in the elevator as I head up, so I pull my phone from my gear bag to check my messages. My voicemail says it’s full, and there are twenty-two missed calls in my notifications. All my dad.
I play the first voicemail, which is from him, and his message starts politely, carrying on the same rehabbed personality he tried to sell me on this morning. But about thirty seconds in, he loses it. My gut says he probably took a hit of something and the drugs just hit his system, because in a single breath he goes from apologizing to a lunatic raging about what a fuck-up I am.
“How dare you judge me, you little shit. I’m this way because of you, I hope you know that. You weren’t planned. Your bitch of a mother, ha! She tricked me, got knocked up before I could leave her. Butohhh,you’re too good for me now!”
I stop the message there, not needing to hear the rest. I scroll my finger down the line, selecting every message he left, and then I select the option to delete them all at once. I’m aboutready to press YES when my phone prompts me, asking if I’m sure, and something makes me second guess my action.
Scrolling through the list of messages one more time, I eyeball the incoming number, noting the California area code from my dad’s phone. Then, at the very end, is a call from Lindsey. I uncheck that box and delete the others before pressing play on her voicemail. I hold my phone to my ear as the elevator opens, and make it three steps into the fifth-floor lobby when her words make me halt.
“Hey. It’s uh . . . it’s me. I don’t want you to worry, but there was a break-in at the house. I’m fine. Holly is fi?—”
