"Why aren't you panicking?"
"Because I made my decision yesterday and it didn't change in my sleep."
He grabs a towel for each of us, handing me one as I’m speaking. "You're going to talk to him?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Right now."
I watch him dry himself off and get dressed, throwing on some boxers, socks, and a fresh pair of jeans.
It doesn’t take him long, and he’s fully dressed, ready for the day.
He turns around, takes his hat off the hook by the door, and holds his other hand out to me. "Coffee?"
"Spur."
"Coffee, Dakota. Then I go talk to your father. I’ll come back after."
"I should be there."
"No, baby."
"Don't baby me. He's my father."
"And he's my Prez. Ten years he and I have been standing across a table from each other. This conversation is mine to have first. Then yours."
I don't like it. I look at him for a long time and he waits the way Spur waits—flat eyes, still hands, no expression—and I lose the staring contest the way I always lose them with him.
"Fine."
"Thank you."
"You owe me, cowboy."
"Yeah."
He brings me coffee in one of his mugs, then walks back to the door.
He's putting his boots on when I come up behind him in one of his shirts.
"Hey," I say.
He looks up.
"Be careful with him."
"Dakota."
"He's my pops, Spur. Don't—" I stop, because I don't know how to finish the sentence. Don't make it worse, isn't right. Don't lose your patch, isn't right either. The truth is somewhere between the two and I don't have words for it yet.
He stands, cups my face in his hand, and kisses my forehead the way he kissed me in the shower.
"I know what your father is, Dakota. I've known him a long time now."
"Yeah."
