Chapter 15 Brooks
FIFTEEN
brOOKS
Things are weird. Sex makes things weird. I knew it would, but I did it anyway. And now that I know what it’s like to be with Lindsey, to taste her and feel her naked body next to mine, I don’t think I can stop. I don’t want to stop.
But it’s not up to me.
And Lindsey hasn’t said a goddamn word about us, or what happened, or .
. . us since I left for my workouts three mornings ago.
Of course, since my dad showed up again, I haven’t exactly been in the frame of mind to have the kind of conversation that Lindsey and I deserve.
I’ve been distracted, but more than that, I’ve been angry.
Lindsey’s avoiding me, and this morning, it reached new levels.
That’s probably for the best because I don’t know what’s liable to come out of my mouth.
I’m meeting my dad at Earl’s in ten minutes, a concession I made and instantly wanted to take back.
I think that’s what bothers me most—I’m still weak around him after all this time.
It’s different than when I was a kid, though.
I’m not giving in because I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me.
I’m giving in because he looks so fucking pathetic and unwell that I feel obligated to give him my time.
But that’s the thing. It’s my time. And he had zero hand in anything I’ve done to get where I am.
I rinse out Holly’s bottle, prop it on the drying stand by the sink, then kiss my daughter’s head before heading out the door to my own damn doom.
Maybe kissing her will be a good omen for me.
I kind of doubt it, though. My father isn’t just a dark cloud; he’s a black hole that sucks me in then forgets I exist.
I purposely didn’t aim to get to Earl’s early.
I said this man could have twenty minutes, and he’s not getting a single second beyond that.
But as he promised, it seems he arrived early.
His thinning hair pokes up around his ears, and the collar on the button-down shirt he’s wearing is crooked, half of it flipped the wrong way.
He keeps running his hand over his head, probably trying to flatten the various cowlicks.
The clock in my SUV flips to the top of the hour, so I kill the engine and head inside.
My dad scurries out of his chair when he spots me, and he rocks back and forth on his feet as I approach.
He doesn’t hold out a hand or make a move to hug me.
That’s good. I think I’d have to turn around if he did that.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, but I figured coffee probably, so I ordered you a cup of that. I got it black, but she’s bringing over the sugar and cream.” My dad’s gaze can’t seem to settle on any one thing as he nervously scans the inside of Earl’s.
“Ah, there she is,” he says, holding up a hand as Daisy approaches.
“Here you go, hon,” she says, offering me a sympathetic smile as she tucks the small tray of sugars and cup of cream next to the steaming mug in front of me.
“Thanks, Daisy,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat in an effort to convey just how miserable this is making me. I get the sense she understands.
“You ready to order?” She pulls a pen from behind her ear, and my dad flips over the simple laminated menu. Earl’s isn’t really a breakfast joint, it’s a bar. I figured it would be pretty low-key this morning, which is why I picked it.
“What’s good here?” My dad pulls a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and struggles to unfold them then slip them on his face. I don’t remember glasses when I was young. He’s becoming an old man. I’m not even sure how old he is. I just know he was always older than Mom, and much older than me.
And he was terrifying.
“We’ll both have the eggs and toast,” I say, pulling a twenty from my wallet and sliding it on the table.
“No, no. I said my treat,” my dad says, pushing the money toward me.
I flatten my hand on the half closest to me, and he stops.
“I don’t have a lot of time. Just let me pay.
And the eggs are good.” I’m making that last part up.
I’ve only ever had a beer here, and maybe some shelled peanuts.
I’m not a big party guy, so when the team went out to celebrate before Holly came, I rarely stayed long.
Now, I have other people in my life to celebrate good games with.
“Thank you,” my dad says under his breath. He pulls his glasses off and tucks them in the breast pocket of his shirt.
“Sure.” I pour a little creamer into my coffee, then stir it with the spoon before testing the heat level with a cautious sip. It’s strong. That’s good. I’m going to need it.
“So, you have a game today, huh?”
I take another sip and eye my father over the rim of the mug.
“Yeah, it’s a series. That’s how it works.
” I’m being short with him, and my lungs squeeze with guilt.
I hate that I feel guilty, though, because he doesn’t deserve me being nice.
I really should talk to someone about my complicated feelings.
I don’t want my relationship with either of my parents to color my relationship with Holly.
“Right, yeah. I remember. You know, I taught you how to throw a ball.” He smiles tentatively, while my mouth remains a hard line.
“Hmm,” I drone. I don’t remember that, but I suppose it’s possible. I don’t remember much about those early years, before I was five. By the time I was in school, though, he was in full-on criminal mode.
My dad leans into the table and pulls his hands together, fidgeting.
“That girl seems nice. She’s really not your wife, huh?” he pries.
I’m tempted to remain silent, but I don’t want him making assumptions about Lindsey. I’d rather stick with the story she created.
“She’s a friend. She and her kids needed a place to stay. It works out,” I say, leaving it at that. My father’s stare lingers, though, and there’s something sinister about the curl of his lip. I’m not sure he’s buying the story we sold him.
I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time, deflating when I see I’ve only been sitting here for six minutes.
“You know, I thought about you a lot when I was in.” His gaze squares on mine suddenly, and it makes me wonder if he’s rehearsed this part.
“Oh, yeah?” I draw in a deep breath, knowing I should stop there, but fuck it. “You think about those times I tried to visit or called, and you denied me?”
I hold his stare until he looks away, wanting him to feel uncomfortable. Yet when he does, I squirm in my seat. What the fuck is this?
“I wasn’t in a good place,” he says.
“No shit! You were in prison. For selling drugs. And being involved in a murder or two.” He needs to know I’ve read the reports. It’s not like I had a mom who protected me from the worst. Hell, she threw the paperwork on the coffee table when it arrived. It was right there for me to weed through.
“I know I haven’t been a good man . . . a good father.”
I huff with a short laugh.
Daisy brings out our plates, but I’m too sick to eat anything, so I push mine toward my father. He tilts his head and looks at me with a disappointed expression. He used to get that look in his eyes before slapping me when I was young. I can practically feel the sting on my cheek.
“Anything else?” Daisy says, glancing between us.
“We’re good, Daise. Thanks.” I give her a tired, tight smile.
“You bet.” She pats my shoulder, then moves on to take the order of a man at the end of the bar. He’s the only other person in this joint at this hour.
“They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.” My father nudges the plate toward me a few inches. I shake my head.
“I’m not hungry. Let’s just get this over with.
What is it you want?” I lean back in my chair, gripping my thighs.
I’m wearing dress slacks and the same shirt I wore to court.
The team rules are players dress nice for road trips, like they do in the majors.
I’m miserable, though. Wearing this makes me feel even more like a banker, which is what I’m pretty sure this impromptu visit is really about.
“I don’t want anything. Except, maybe, to spend a little time with my son.”
I laugh again, and just like that, his fragile fist grows stronger, coming down on the table with enough of a bang that it shakes the silverware and draws Daisy’s gaze from across the bar.
I tuck my tongue inside my cheek and lean to the side, waving Daisy off.
She doesn’t deserve this shit going down in her bar. My bad for bringing it here.
“I’m sorry,” he says. I don’t laugh this time, though I want to. And that’s our story at play again, the same after all these years. He blows up, and I react by learning my lesson.
“I really am working on that. My anger. It’s something I spent time on in prison.
They had me seeing one of those therapists.
The person was always changing, though. Not a lot of tenure in the prison health system.
” He shakes with a gurgling laugh that makes me wonder if he’s sick.
He probably is dying of lots of things, all brought on by his lifestyle.
I’m sure none of them will kill him quickly.
“Maybe we can do this again in ten years. When you get better at controlling your temper.” I brace myself for another outburst, but he laughs instead, pointing a finger at me before taking a slice of toast and biting off a corner.
“You’re funny. You get that from me,” he says, chewing with his mouth full. His toast is dry, and crumbs stick to his cracking lips.
“Yeah, that’s what Mom always told me about you. ‘Your father, he’s a riot.’” My dry tone makes the point, and my father’s smile immediately drops to a straight line. He tosses the half-eaten piece of toast back to the plate, then rubs his hands together while his elbows rest on the table.