I cough hard enough I’m sure the beer’s about to spray the carpet, bent forward with a fist against my chest. “The fuck, George. Who?”
“Acting like I’m stupid.” He leans back, smug as hell. “Alright, I’ll play.”
I glare at him through watery eyes, but he just shifts in his recliner, straightening like a judge ready to deliver the verdict. Then he starts counting off on his fingers.
“For starters, you’ve been stuck in your head all morning, son. Don’t give me that look—I know you. I know when Stephanie has done something to piss you off. You’ve got a whole face for that. Jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, like you’re about to file for divorce all over again. And you tend to cancel our plans when she’s the problem, because you don’t want to bring it up around me out of respect for my relationship with my daughter.”
I let out a slow breath. He’s not wrong. I haven’t answered her calls in months. Delete the voicemails without even listening. Out of sight, out of mind.
But the truth is, it’s not that simple. It never has been.
Because Stephanie leaving didn’t just rip a hole in my life—it left me with this strange version of joint custody. Not of kids—thank God we never had kids. But of her parents, George and Linda. The people who stayed when she walked.
And they did stay. They didn’t make excuses for her, didn’t pretend her choices were acceptable. They hugged me, fed me, pulled me into holidays and birthdays like nothing had changed—like the piece that broke off between their daughter and me didn’t sever anything here.
I’ve thought about how weird that is more times than I can count. How most divorced people would give anything to not see their ex’s family every week. But not me. George and Linda are mine. Family I chose. Family who chose me back. If there’s any silver lining to the smoking crater of that marriage, it’s them.
Maybe that’s why it stings less that I’ve never been close with my own parents. It’s not some deep abandonment wound or childhood trauma—it’s just… distance. They were in their mid-forties when they had me, a surprise baby who landed in the middle of their already-established careers. While I was technically an only child, I was really more like the younger sibling to their teaching tenure. Their work was the eldest, the favorite, the one who got most of their attention. By the time I hit college, they were already packing up for their next stage of life—traveling, lecturing, chasing their own adventures.
We check in once a month or so. Obligatory updates, polite conversations. They’re proud enough of me in a vague, distant way. But holidays? Those were never with them. Before the divorce, I spent them with Stephanie’s family. After the divorce, now I spend them with Dex. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. I assume that even with Alis and Sunny now living with him I’m still invited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, right? Sunny won’t object—it just means more presents for her.
So yeah, maybe I cling to George and Linda harder than makes sense. Because while my own parents drifted, these two stayed.Linda still calls me son. Still hugs me like I’m hers. Still insists I bring my appetite when I show up for dinner twice a week. And George—well, George is George. Grumpy as hell, stubborn as a mule, but steady in a way no one else has been. If he doesn’t survive this fight with cancer, I’ll shatter.
We don’t talk about Stephanie. Ever. Our relationship is carved out separate, clean, untouched by her choices. What we talk about is hockey. Because it’s safer than cancer, steadier than grief. That’s our glue.
George knows when something’s off with me. He’s earned the right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to hand him the truth on a silver platter.
I’ve been quiet for too long, so I take a long pull of my beer, smirking around the rim. “Alright, Sherlock. What else you got?”
“Then there’s the fact you showed up at nine instead of noon,” George says, his eyes narrowing like he’s got me cornered already. “You didn’t go out drinking. Didn’t bring a hangover with you. Which means you weren’t out chasing a warm body last night. And that, my boy, is suspicious.”
I bark out a laugh and shake my head, because, dammit, he’s not wrong about that either. “And what about those two things makes you think there’s a woman?”
“I’m not done, boy,” George chastises, pointing at me like he’s the authority here.
I motion for him to go on. “By all means.”
Instead of lifting another finger, he points to my wrist. “The watch.”
I glance down at it—silver band, scuffed face, second hand that ticks half a beat too slow. My grandfather’s watch. I hadn’t thought twice when I slid it on this week. It just… felt right.
“The watch?” I repeat, raising a brow.
“You only wear your grandfather’s watch when you’re happy,” George says, smirking like he’s already got me nailed to the wall. “And you haven’t been happy in years.”
I scoff. “You’re joking, right? It’s literally just a watch.”
But the words don’t carry the weight I want them to. Because Ididstop wearing it somewhere between the last fight and the last time Stephanie slammed the door. And Ididput it back on this week like it meant something I didn’t want to name.
George leans forward, eyes sharp despite the frailty in his body. “You wore it on your wedding day. You wore it through the first few years. Then it disappeared. Except for Dexter and Alis’s engagement party, a few other special occasions here and there. And now? Dinner on Tuesday. Dinner on Thursday. Today. That’s not a coincidence, son. That’s a man feeling lighter. Happier. And don’t insult me by pretending it isn’t.”
His words hang heavy, heavier than the game on TV or the pretzel bowl between us.
I shift, stretching my legs out, trying to play it off. “I’ll give you this—I am happier than I’ve been in a long time. But it’s not because of a woman.”
George tilts his head, unconvinced. “So what is it, then?”
I search for the words. “Maybe I’m just done with the bullshit. Done chasing cheap hookups. I’m too old to waste every Friday swiping through Tinder like it’s a side hustle.”
