He kills the engine, sits in silence for a minute.
He doesn’t look at me when he starts talking. “You ever watch pelicans hunt?” He points out to the horizon, where a line of birds is gliding above the break. “They spot the fish, tuck in, and then just—” He makes a motion with his hand, straight down, no hesitation.
I watch the birds. They really do just dive, full speed, no flinch.
He taps the wheel, thinking. “In venture, the deals that scare you the most are the ones with the biggest upside. You see something nobody else does, and you move before anyone else is even ready.”
He glances at me, finally. The sun behind him makes his face hard to read, all shadows and reflected light.
He says, “The plays that look impossible? Those are the ones that win championships.”
I wait for the joke, or the punchline, but he just keeps watching the ocean.
"And relationships," he says, almost offhand. "Same thing, son. You see the opening, you take the shot."
He lets the words hang. The only sound is the ocean and the distant rush of cars on the highway.
He turns the key, engine roaring back to life, and peels out with a spray of gravel.
He doesn’t talk on the way back. We just drive, the Mustang eating up the road, the jazz turning sad and soft.
Back at the house, he parks, then sits in the driveway, engine idling. “Your mom’s inside,” he says. “She’s making you griot. You know what that means.”
I nod. “Means she’s worried.”
He smiles, but it’s crooked, almost sad. “She’s always worried. That’s her job.”
I reach for the handle, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. “Darius. You’re too smart to let a good thing get away because you’re scared of the downside.”
I look at him, really look, and for the first time in a long time, I see the kid he must have been once, the one who wanted to win every time but sometimes had to settle for second place.
“I’ll try,” I say, and he lets go.
Inside, the house is warm, the smell of pork and citrus flooding the hall. My mother is at the stove, humming, spoon in one hand, phone in the other.
She doesn’t look up, but she knows we’re here. “Set the table, boys,” she says, and we do.
We eat together, not talking much, just letting the food fill whatever cracks are left. I’m not hungry, but I eat anyway, because that’s what you do when someone loves you enough to cook.
After dinner, I wash the dishes.
My father goes to the den, pretends to read the Wall Street Journal but really just waits for my mother to join him. I hear them talking, low and urgent, in the next room.
I can’t make out the words, but it doesn’t matter.
I dry my hands, go to my room, and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about pelicans and hockey and what it means to take the shot.
I turn on my phone, scroll through the messages from Ash. I want to say something. I want to call, to explain, to tell him I’m sorry for making him carry the weight by himself.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I close my eyes and picture the ocean, the line of birds in the sky, and the moment before they dive.
I picture what it would feel like to be that sure, even just for a second.
And I promise myself, next time, I’ll go all in.
