Page 99 of Colliding with Ten

Ayla chuckled.

“On the highway, right near the university’s stadium. Thirty feet wide. You couldn’t miss it if you tried. It said, ‘Lennox Monroe will be back.’ And underneath that, they wrote, ‘His Dad.’”

Ayla’s mouth fell open. She looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded.

“Every reporter in the state called the house,” Dad continued, looking pleased. “It became a thing. People were driving past it and taking photos.”

Mom called over her shoulder as she cleared the paper plates, “I didn’t answer the phone for a week. I told everyone he’d lost his mind.”

“Maybe I had,” Dad admitted. “But the next season, this kid comes back, wins the championship, and throws for three hundred and forty yards in the title game.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Oh, he’s not done,” Mom said.

“I bought a second billboard,” Dad said. “On the same highway. It said, ‘Told you.’”

Ayla burst out laughing. Dad was beaming.

“The attention connected me with a real estate developer who thought it was hilarious,” Dad said. “We got to talking, and he showed me a property three streets from where this one bought his house. I liked the neighborhood, and he gave me a good deal. I figured if my son was going to be playing out here, I might as well be here to tell him what he did wrong after every game.”

I rolled my eyes at him.

Ayla turned to me. “Your parents live three streets away from you?”

I shrugged.

“I believe in him,” Dad said. “Always have, and sometimes you need to make the highway know it.”

The evening moved to their place, a modest home with a deck overlooking the valley. It didn’t have the square footage of my house or the glass walls, but it felt like home in Illinois. Photos covered every surface, and the smell of cooking had seeped into the walls. I spent a lot of time here. Mom always joked I would starve otherwise.

She gave Ayla a tour, then showed the photo albums. One picture showed me at eight, in a Halloween costume she’d sewn. I was a football player with cardboard shoulder pads. Then, at twelve, I had my first real jersey.

“He’s always been like that,” Mom said, flipping a page. “Always with a serious face. His teachers used to say he looked like a tiny executive.”

“He was seven and asked for a planner for Christmas,” Dad added from the kitchen where he was cleaning up.

“It was an organizer,” I said.

“He color-coded it,” Mom told Ayla.

Ayla tried not to laugh but did anyway.

My mother turned another page and pointed. “This is when he discovered fashion. He was ten when he came home from school and told me he needed a blazer.”

“For what?” Ayla asked.

“For presentation,” Mom said. “He said, and I quote, ‘Presentation matters, Mom.’ That’s what I’d told him for years. From that day on, he’s never worn a wrinkled shirt.”

Ayla looked at me with warmth in her eyes. They were laying it on thick, but that was who they were.

Dad and I built a fire in the backyard pit. We sat down and looked up at a sky full of stars. Away from the city’s glow, the view wasn’t bad. Mom had a blanket over her legs as Dad nursed a glass of whiskey, continuing the conversation. Soon, Mom yawned, and Dad took the cue.

“We’re going to bed,” he said, standing. He kissed the top of my head, a gesture he’d been doing since I was five, and I’d stopped being embarrassed about it.

He turned to Ayla. “It was a pleasure.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she said.