SOREN
My phone rang while I was making coffee in Rook's kitchen, and when I saw “Dad” on the screen my first instinct was to let it go to voicemail and pretend I'd never seen it.
But I'd been working on facing hard shit instead of running from it, so I answered.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“Soren.” His voice sounded different than I remembered. Clearer, maybe. Less rough around the edges. “I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but I was hoping we could meet. Talk. I need to explain some things.”
My stomach dropped. “Explain what?”
“Everything. What happened with your mother. Why I—” He paused, and I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “Please. Just give me an hour. That's all I'm asking.”
I should have said no. But there was a sincerity in his voice that I couldn't quite ignore, and before I could stop myself I was agreeing to meet him at a coffee shop in Toronto.
When I hung up, Rook was standing in the doorway watching me with an expression that said he'd heard enough to know exactly who I'd been talking to.
“Your dad,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“To meet. Talk. Explain himself.” I set my phone down on the counter and stared at it like it might explode. “I said yes.”
Rook crossed the room and pulled me into a hug without saying anything, and I let myself lean into him for a minute because the dread was already settling into my chest and I needed the reminder that I wasn't doing this completely alone.
“I'm coming with you,” he said eventually.
“No.”
He pulled back enough to look at me. “Soren?—”
“I have to do this myself.” I touched his face, trying to make him understand. “Not because I don't want you there. Because I need to know I can survive this conversation without anyone holding me up.”
“I don't like it.”
“I know. But you've got practice anyway, right? Second game against the Raiders is in two days. You need to be there.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just sighed and kissed my forehead instead. “Text me after. And if he pulls any bullshit, you leave. You don't owe him anything.”
“I know.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” I kissed him properly, trying to pour all the gratitude and fear and love I couldn't articulate into the press ofmy mouth against his. When I pulled back, he was looking at me with those dark eyes that saw too much. “I'll be fine.”
“You better be.”
The coffee shopwas one of those places that tried too hard to be quirky—exposed brick, mismatched furniture, a chalkboard menu that took five minutes to decipher. I spotted my dad immediately, sitting at a table near the back with two cups of coffee already waiting.
He looked different. Older, obviously, but also clearer somehow. His eyes weren't bloodshot, his hands weren't shaking, and he was wearing clean clothes that fit. The sight of him looking sober and present made my chest go tight with a complicated mess of feelings I didn't have names for.
He stood when he saw me, and for a second I thought he might try to hug me. But he must have seen the warning in my face because he just gestured to the chair across from him and sat back down.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
I sat and pulled one of the coffee cups toward me without drinking it. “You said you wanted to explain.”
