Chapter 45 Claire
CLAIRE
Ifreeze in Mom’s entryway, seconds from shouting my usual, Hi, Mom, listening to the low timbre of my father’s voice in one of the places I never expected to hear it.
We haven’t spoken since he came to my final home match pre-break.
That was a brief exchange—him congratulating me on the win—Cassidy, Josh, and Tommy’s presence easing most of the awkwardness.
Dad didn’t mention then, or anytime else, that he’d ever visited Echo Glen before.
But his voice is unmistakable, low and calm, followed by my mom’s quiet laugh.
I slip out of my other sandal, rounding the corner barefoot.
They’re seated at the dining room table, surface littered with its usual piles of Mom’s notes, looking through a photo album.
“No, she was a fairy that year,” my dad says, then glances up and sees me.
“That’s right,” Mom replies. “Was it—” She notices Dad’s attention has drifted, then follows his gaze to me. “Claire!”
“Hi, Mom.” I shift my weight awkwardly, foot to foot. “It’s such a nice day. I was thinking you might want to go on a walk. But I—” I look at Dad, not sure what to say about his presence here.
“I have to finish this chapter.” She pats her laptop, set right next to the photo album. “Why don’t you two go without me?”
I’m not sure who’s more startled by the suggestion—me or my dad.
“Oh, no—” I start.
“That’s not—” Dad says at the same time.
We talk simultaneously, then stop in sync as well. I’m uncomfortably reminded of Cassidy’s comment—that Dad and I are awfully similar.
Mom is undeterred. “Go on. Like Claire said, it’s a beautiful day.” She gives me an encouraging nod.
She appears aware of the awkwardness between us. Like she’s living in the present or somewhere close to it today, which makes this even stranger. She hasn’t seemed to have forgotten that Dad and I don’t go on walks. We don’t do anything together.
We used to though. My right hand slips into the pocket of my shorts, fingering the coin. Cassidy was a fairy for several years during my zookeeper phase. I’m sure the old album he and Mom were just looking at is filled with photos of the two of us together. Probably some at the Detroit Zoo.
I clear my throat. “I… Sure. I have some time.”
My dad’s face lights up. “Me too.”
His obvious excitement makes me feel about two inches tall. Worse than my dad’s choices all those years ago is the growing realization that I played a huge role in our estrangement too. That I’ve never tried to forgive him, merely accepted our relationship was ruined beyond repair.
“Great.” Mom opens her laptop and begins typing, disappearing into a fictional world I’ve always been envious of.
I’m too practical to have the same imagination. Cassidy inherited that romanticism and wanderlust, but not me.
Dad and I don’t say much, trading simple comments like, “Left here,” and “After you,” as we walk Echo Glen’s winding hallways toward a set of doors that lead to the gardens. There’s a pond out here, too, where a family of ducks lives.
We walk along one of the paths, surrounded by the chirps of birds and errant pieces of conversation as we pass other visitors. The loudest sound is the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.
“Does Lindsey know you come here?” I finally ask.
“She does.”
“That doesn’t bother her?”
“She knows your mother and I have a…complicated relationship.”
I suppress a snort. What a concise way of framing cheating.
But I don’t say so because I know it will ruin this moment.
“How often do you come?”
“I try to get here once a week. Bring her some new books and just…check in.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I should have mentioned it to you.”
“It’s fine.”
We continue walking, gravel continuing to crunch underfoot as we traverse the peaceful path. It is peaceful, walking with my dad, which isn’t an adjective I’ve used to describe our relationship in a long time.
“I’m watching Tommy this weekend, during Cassidy and Josh’s trip,” I finally say. “I was thinking about bringing him to Southwick’s Zoo on Saturday, if you want to join us?”
There’s a pause, and I’m not brave enough to look over to check the expression on his face.
“I would love to.” He clears his throat. “Lindsey has an event this weekend, so she won’t be able to make it, but all I had on the agenda was some golf. I can easily reschedule.”
I nod, privately relieved Lindsey’s busy.
She’s always acted perfectly pleasant toward me, but I can’t picture us ever being more than civil.
I have no reason to forgive her. At least, with my dad, there’s something to salvage.
She was a stranger when she and my dad got married, and she’s barely not one now.
But I am trying—or trying to try—so I say, “I went to a gala a few weeks ago—I was invited by the Siege. It was put on by the Boston Sports Foundation. I saw some—it seemed like Lindsey’s company had planned it.”
Dad nods. “She did. They’re one of her regular clients.” After a pause, he adds, “She filmed your speech. Sent it to me. I hope that was…okay.”
“What did you think?”
He seems surprised by the question. “You were incredible, Claire. You always—you’ve always excelled at anything you put your mind to.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I hope—I hope you know how proud of you I am. How proud I’ve been.”
I glance down, letting my hair fall forward to partially cover my face as I blink rapidly. “Thanks, Dad,” I repeat.
During the most important, meaningful moments, I have the hardest time expressing my thoughts.
I can’t find the right words to convey how I’m feeling to my dad—that I’m happy and sad and confused and guilty and angry—when I’m around him or when I think about the state of our relationship or when I recall the many years we hardly spoke.
“Josh mentioned he told you about his special plans for the trip.”
“He did.”
I’m not surprised Josh asked Dad for permission before proposing. He’s traditional like that. Stable and somewhat predictable. The kind of guy I assumed I’d end up with, not Cassidy.
But she and Josh fit.
The same way, weirdly, that Otto and I fit. I feel more myself with him than anyone else.
“It’s exciting,” Dad comments.
“It is.”
There’s a natural lull where I could say more, offer information about my own love life, which I think my dad is wondering about, but I stay silent.
I don’t know where to begin discussing Otto with anyone, let alone my father.
His absence is a noticeable ache, prompting a slew of second-guessing of what I should have said before he left.
I should have told him I loved him. It might not have changed anything, but at least the words would be expelled, not contained.
Instead, I impulsively scribbled the four-letter word in the middle of the night.
“What?” I ask, belatedly realizing my dad’s been talking while I was adrift in a sea of my own thoughts.
Curiosity lingers on his face as he repeats, “Are you missing playing?”
Not a question I get often. Most people assume the break midseason or between seasons is a relief.
But even in the moments I’ve hated soccer, when I’ve cursed my foot for not making that fateful shot and my reflexes for not reacting faster, allowing a striker to slip past, I’ve never wanted to do anything else.
“I was considering quitting actually.”
Dad stops walking.
It takes me a few steps to realize, and then I circle back, meeting his startled eyes.
“Why?”
I lift a shoulder, then let it drop, debating how honest to be.
“With everything happening with Mom, I thought it made the most sense. Not just the money—it was before you set up the trust—but spending more time with her. A normal job would have typical hours. It’s a sacrifice, training and traveling, and it’s always been worth it to me.
But at some point…I made it. I played professionally.
Played in Boston even. I wasn’t sure what else was left.
” I shrug again, letting the uncertain motion bookend my explanation.
Dad frowns. “Considering? So, you’ve decided to continue playing?”
I nod. “Assuming the Siege offers an extension. I signed a two-year contract that expires at the end of this season.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I fell back in love with it, I guess. I decided to prioritize what I want and worry less about what is practical or what other people would tell me to do.”
A pause, and then Dad says, “If you meet someone who doesn’t support your career, Claire, he’s not the right person.”
I think of Nolan for the first time in years, who acted like soccer was an inconvenient hobby.
My most recent ex, Steve, who was on the partner track at a major law firm and would joke that my job kept me busier than his did.
Even Walker seemed unsure what questions to ask during our brief period of exchanging texts, as if a woman being a professional athlete was a foreign concept to him.
Otto told me to play.
“It’s not that.”
Dad nods, appearing relieved. “Good.”
The path veers right, curving back toward Echo Glen. A fountain trickles water, some of the spray misting my arm as we pass it.
“There’s an ice cream place down the street. We could see if your mom has finished her chapter, then take a quick trip there? They have sorbet.”
I study my dad, two important details striking me at once. One, the way he’s accepted Mom’s insistence that she continue working when we both know it’s unlikely she’ll ever finish another book. Two, that he noticed they had a nondairy option.
“Sorbet sounds great,” I say.
Dad smiles, and we head back toward the building together.