Page 83 of Hard to Love

“I doubt that.”

“After thirty-five years, I know that when the Padres are on, he prefers me to be busy so I don’t bug him.”

“Well, have a great trip,” Finn says.

“We will.” I hear her keys rattle. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did either of you drop this on your way in? It’s brand new with the tag on it so I figured it’s yours since it was just outside the gate by the mailbox.”

Both Finn and I turn to look at what she’s holding up, and I swear to God my breath stops at the sight of the red Nike ball cap in her hands.

Just like my dad used to wear.

It takes me a second to find both my feet beneath me and my words as I stand and move toward her. “Where did you . . .”

I take the hat from her, not thinking about it being someone else’s despite the tag hanging from it and not really caring, because in an instant, I’m swamped with the grief that has been fading over time.

Tears well in my eyes as I stare at this hat. I can’t help but think it’s a sign from him. A something from the powers that be to tell me I’m doing okay and that he’s still here with me.

“Thank you, Faith,” Finn murmurs as he puts his arm around me and steers me to the couch before sitting on the table facing me. But I can’t even bring myself to look up and meet his eyes because I’m so busy staring at this silly hat that somebody is missing.

“Tell me about him,” Finn murmurs, his hands closing over mine as they hold on to the hat.

“He was my dad.” I whisper the words and then realize that term doesn’t have the same meaning for him that it does for me. “He was the only person I had for so long, that I don’t know what life is like without him.”

“I’m sure he felt the same way about you.”

“He went to Mother’s Day events and made a grand show of it so I wouldn’t feel left out. I’m talking feather boas and glitter tiaras and he didn’t give a rat’s ass what people thought about him so long as I smiled. We’d celebrate Christmas in Australia, heading down early, before the Australian Open. He surprised me every year with the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen, and then we’d turn the air down in our hotel room to make it feel cold and wintery while we ate dinner and opened gifts. He signed cards pretending they were from my mother, even when he knew that I knew it was his handwriting. Birthdays were all-out events. He . . .” I hiccup over a sob as I remember the many ridiculous things he did that I’ve forgotten over time.

“He sounds amazing.”

“Sometimes I think he tried too hard and did too much. It was part of the tension between us. He held on too tight when all I wanted to do was let go . . . but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Finn lifts one of my hands and kisses its palm. “He didn’t tell you he was sick,” he murmurs against my skin, and the pain of that hits me all over again.

My breath hitches as I nod, fighting back the tears. “I was so angry at him. Furious. You know?” I ask and Finn nods. “We fought for days over it, but then I became frantic because, how could I waste any time directing my anger at him when there wasn’t much time left? As it was, he’d been suffering for over a year at that time.”

I remember the loneliness the most. The feeling like I was adrift at sea with everyone trying to tether me and not a single one being successful at it.

Then came the guilt. The endless, debilitating guilt over being so wrapped up in myself and my world that I’d missed the signs. The weight he was losing that he said was due to a new vegan lifestyle. The exhaustion that was prevalent that he blamed on insomnia. His excuses I believed about why he was staying home here and there.

How could I not have noticed?

“I’m so sorry,” Finn whispers and squeezes my hand.

I shrug to let the emotion burning in my throat subside. “His reasoning was that he didn’t want me to stop living because of him.” I sniff. “Up until the end, he was pouring his life into me so that I could have mine.”

“Sounds like an incredible man.”

I smile for the first time as I remember our last real conversation. “My last promise to him was that I’d win the US Open for him. It was his favorite tournament, and I was desperate to promise him anything to motivate him to keep fighting. To stay alive.”

“That’s understandable.”

“So I promised him I’d win only if he was there in the stands. And then he died . . .”

“And you fought wanting to even train for the tournament because—”

“Because I was mad at him for not upholding his end of the bargain. And because I knew going there without him was going to reinforce his absence.” I blow out a frustrated sigh. “I’d give anything to look in the stands one more time to see his red hat sitting there and hear him say those words to me.”

“Game on, Stevester,” Finn whispers.