“How often do you come?”
“I try to get here once a week. Bring her some new books and just…check in.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I should have mentioned it to you.”
“It’s fine.”
We continue walking, gravel continuing to crunch underfoot as we traverse the peaceful path. It is peaceful, walking with my dad, which isn’t an adjective I’ve used to describe our relationship in a long time.
“I’m watching Tommy this weekend, during Cassidy and Josh’s trip,” I finally say. “I was thinking about bringing him to Southwick’s Zoo on Saturday, if you want to join us?”
There’s a pause, and I’m not brave enough to look over to check the expression on his face.
“I would love to.” He clears his throat. “Lindsey has an event this weekend, so she won’t be able to make it, but all I had on the agenda was some golf. I can easily reschedule.”
I nod, privately relieved Lindsey’s busy. She’s always acted perfectly pleasant toward me, but I can’t picture us ever being more than civil. I have no reason to forgive her. At least, with mydad, there’s something to salvage. She was a stranger when she and my dad got married, and she’s barely not one now.
But I am trying—or trying to try—so I say, “I went to a gala a few weeks ago—I was invited by the Siege. It was put on by the Boston Sports Foundation. I saw some—it seemed like Lindsey’s company had planned it.”
Dad nods. “She did. They’re one of her regular clients.” After a pause, he adds, “She filmed your speech. Sent it to me. I hope that was…okay.”
“What did you think?”
He seems surprised by the question. “You were incredible, Claire. You always—you’ve always excelled at anything you put your mind to.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I hope—I hope you know how proud of you I am. How proud I’ve been.”
I glance down, letting my hair fall forward to partially cover my face as I blink rapidly. “Thanks, Dad,” I repeat.
During the most important, meaningful moments, I have the hardest time expressing my thoughts. I can’t find the right words to convey how I’m feeling to my dad—that I’m happy and sad and confused and guilty and angry—when I’m around him or when I think about the state of our relationship or when I recall the many years we hardly spoke.
“Josh mentioned he told you about his special plans for the trip.”
“He did.”
I’m not surprised Josh asked Dad for permission before proposing. He’s traditional like that. Stable and somewhat predictable. The kind of guy I assumed I’d end up with, not Cassidy.
But she and Josh fit.
The same way, weirdly, that Otto and I fit. I feel more myself with him than anyone else.
“It’s exciting,” Dad comments.
“It is.”
There’s a natural lull where I could say more, offer information about my own love life, which I think my dad is wondering about, but I stay silent. I don’t know where to begin discussing Otto with anyone, let alone my father. His absence is a noticeable ache, prompting a slew of second-guessing of what I should have said before he left. I should have told him I loved him. It might not have changed anything, but at least the words would be expelled, not contained. Instead, I impulsively scribbled the four-letter word in the middle of the night.
“What?” I ask, belatedly realizing my dad’s been talking while I was adrift in a sea of my own thoughts.
Curiosity lingers on his face as he repeats, “Are you missing playing?”
Not a question I get often. Most people assume the break midseason or between seasons is a relief. But even in the moments I’ve hated soccer, when I’ve cursed my foot for not making that fateful shot and my reflexes for not reacting faster, allowing a striker to slip past, I’ve never wanted to do anything else.
“I was considering quitting actually.”
Dad stops walking.
It takes me a few steps to realize, and then I circle back, meeting his startled eyes.
