Thursday, 12:30? That café near the courthouse you like. My treat.
Of course, he picks somewhere within sprinting distance of his office. Man doesn’t know how to exist further than three blocks from a legal document.
Miguel
Okay. See you then.
No emojis. No jokes.
I slide my phone face-down on the workbench and stare at the panel I’m supposed to be fixing.
“Everything good?” Benny calls from the other side of the basement, where he’s rewiring an ancient light fixture.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Just… parent stuff.”
He makes a sympathetic noise. “Ah, the ultimate short circuit,” he says. “Good luck with that,mano.”
I huff out a laugh and get back to work.
This café ishalf lawyer hangout, half “cute place with plants” that my mom would callun cafecito caro. Exposed brick, hanging ferns, mismatched mugs. The kind of place where they write quotes on the chalkboard and overworked paralegals cry into salads.
I get there five minutes early on purpose, because apparently I enjoy torturing myself and also because I don’t want to walk in and see who he’s already talking to. The barista gives me a nod, he recognizes me from the times I’ve grabbed coffee here on my lunch break when I’ve done jobs in the area. “The usual?” he asks.
“Nah,” I say. “I’m meeting someone. I’ll wait.”
The bell over the door jingles behind me.
“Miguel,” Dad says.
I turn.
He’s in court-adjacent mode, tie loosened but still there, sleeves rolled up, briefcase in hand instead of over his shoulder. He looks tired around the eyes in a way I don’t think is from work.
“Hey,” I say. “You look like a walking bar exam.”
That gets a laugh out of him. “That bad, huh?”
“You’re the lawyer,” I say. “You tell me.”
We order—him an iced latte and some turkey sandwich, me a black coffee and whatever looks like it won’t make my stomach flip. We sit at a little table near the window, slightly away from the cluster of other lawyers.
He sets his phone face-down. That’s new. The Ashton Burton I met when I was six would’ve kept it between us like a third party in the conversation.
For a minute, we do the neutral small talk dance. Work, Mom, whether the Giants’ season is cursed. It’s fine. Polite. Like we’re acquaintances who only know each other from some committee.
Then he clears his throat. “I, uh… wanted to talk about the dinner,” he says.
My shoulders go tight. “I figured,” I say.
Dad looks down at his hands, fingers laced around his coffee cup, then back up. “I didn’t like the way that went,” he says. “The whole… hallway conversation. I’ve been replaying it since.”
“Welcome to our world,” I say before I can stop myself.
His mouth twists, but he doesn’t argue.
“I owe you an apology,” he says finally. “Both of you. But I wanted to talk to you first. If that’s… okay.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, trying to keep my tone level. “I’m listening.”
