Page 138 of The Casanova Complex

And then I had the game tonight, so I honestly thought about telling them I wanted to go home and crash instead of having dinner.

But… I’m just trying to soak up all of this time I can with my family before they leave.

So, we came to Commander’s Palace, which might be a little cliché New Orleans, but their reputation precedes them. It’s one of my favorite places to eat in the city. It’s nice, but it doesn’t feel stuffy. There’s usually a local band playing, the food’s fucking incredible, and tonight is Merritt’s first time here.

I’ve already made a mental note to make a list of all the places around the city where I want to take her and just fucking spoil her every opportunity I get. There’s a really cool new museum that just opened up on Decatur that I heard about, and I wanna take Elliott there too. I put the name down in the notes app on my phone so I wouldn’t forget.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?” he answers.

“I just want to say thank you for taking time off work, for flying down, coming to my game.” I swallow hard, silent for a moment as I try to think of exactly how I want to say what’s been weighing heavily on me.

To say what Merritt has encouraged me to talk to my parents about instead of keeping it all bottled up inside like I always have.

“It means a lot to me that you’re here. More than you probably know. I know that you and Mom are not sold on the hockey thing, and I get it, I do. You’d rather support me in a more stable job. And I know you just want the best for me…”

“Bennett,” my dad says, stopping me, and I lift my gaze back to his, having dropped it to the glass of whiskey in my hands. “Son, I need you to know that your mom and I support whatever you want to do. Whatever path you choose, we’re right here. It’s not that we’re not on board with hockey or that we don’t think that you can do it. Son, you can do anything.”

He blows out an exhale and runs a hand over his short beard. “One day, twenty years from now, when we’re sitting right here and you’ve got kids of your own with that beautiful girl down there, you’ll understand when I say that sometimes even with the best of intentions for your children, you go about it the wrong way. Sometimes you don’t get it right. You think you’re doing what’s best for them. You think you’re guiding them in the right direction with your knowledge and wisdom. But sometimes you’re just stifling them. You’re just holding them back.”

Every one of his words hits me in the chest like a physical blow, unlocking the months and months of things I’ve kept tucked away, not wanting to stress them or burden them with my own shit. With my insecurities.

I swallow down the heavy, thick emotion pooling in the base of my throat.

“I’m sorry that we didn’t recognize that we were hurting you while we were trying to protect you. I’m sorry it took us so long to realize that.” His voice cracks, and fuck, I’m about to cry in a goddamn Michelin-starred restaurant with my dad.

I nod. “It’s okay, Dad.”

“It’s not. Even if you wanted to be a monkey and join the goddamn circus, you should know that your mother and I would be the first people with tickets to see the show.”

A laugh rumbles in my chest, and I shake my head. “I should’ve talked to you, told you how I felt. I’m not great at it, but I’m learning…” I glance at Merritt. “I’m learning that I don’t have to keep it to myself. That it’s okay to struggle sometimes. I thought by keeping my distance, I was doing us both a favor, and I was wrong.”

I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong, but that’s never been my issue. Telling someone how I feel, however, is a totally different story.

“Thank you for talking to me. For letting me and your mom make up for our mistakes,” he says as he reaches over and pats my forearm.

“You’ve picked me up a thousand times in my life, Dad. I’m the man I am because of you.”

“Son, you have no idea what that means to me.”

But he’s wrong. I do.

“I cannot believe you gave me a piggyback ride for like ten blocks,” Merritt says as I gingerly set her down onto the couch. I help her out of the chunky combat boots on her feet, careful not to rub the blister that’s already forming.

Hence the reason I just carried her halfway around the city on my back like a fucking orangutan.

I tenderly sweep my thumb over the sensitive spot near her heel, and she winces.

“Maybe next time, we pick some better shoes before deciding that you want to, and I quote, ‘walk around and see the city at night,’ which equates to two miles walking home, baby.”

Her eyes sparkle with wicked amusement.

“Or don’t, and I will continue to give you piggyback rides because what else am I here for?”

“Much better,” she teases, and I bend down, scooping her up over my shoulder, her squeal echoing out around us.

Apparently, Elliott is staying the night at his cousin’s house tonight, and her dad’s working a late shift, which means we are blissfully alone, and I have big plans for her. Which may include that claw-foot tub in her bathroom.