Chapter 16 Retreat #3
Her hands cup my face, checking my jaw, my temples, running over the short hair like she’s expecting to find a wound that wasn’t there before.
She steps back, studies me. “You look tired, Darius.”
“Long night,” I say.
She just raises an eyebrow, then grabs my bag and drags me inside, like maybe if she gets me behind closed doors fast enough, the world won’t be able to mess with me.
The house is exactly the same: narrow hall, creaky floorboards, living room full of mismatched furniture that she claims “has character.”
There are two framed pictures of me in high school on the mantle, plus one of us at Lake Merritt, me all knees and elbows, her grinning with an ice cream cone that’s melting down her wrist.
The kitchen is clean, which is new, and the table is set for one, a book splayed open next to a mug of tea.
She pours me a glass of water and sets it in front of me. “You hungry?”
I shake my head, but she puts a pot on the stove anyway, because some things are not up for debate.
She moves around the kitchen like she’s running a drill, chopping onions, slicing peppers, pulling leftover rice from the fridge and breaking eggs into a bowl with one hand.
It’s comforting, this choreography. I watch her in silence, just breathing in the smell of sauté and spice, letting the sound of her humming under her breath fill the space.
She doesn’t ask why I’m here. Not yet. She waits until the eggs are in the pan, until the first forkful is on my plate, until I’ve taken a bite and can’t talk around it.
Then, casual as anything, “How’s the team?”
“Good,” I say. “Coach has us on a tight schedule. Next round’s in a week.”
She nods. “You playing?”
I almost laugh. “Can’t keep me out of the net.”
She smiles, pleased. “That’s my boy.”
She lets it hang for a minute, then, “Seattle treating you okay? You need money?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mean it. The league pays better than any of us deserve, even if you’re bottom tier.
She pours herself more tea, sits opposite me, and props her chin on her fist. “You sleeping?”
I think about lying, but she’s not the type you can fool. “Some,” I say. “Not much.”
She gives me a look, equal parts pity and challenge. “You’ll tell me if you need help?”
I nod, but my eyes don’t meet hers.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. She gets up, wipes her hands, and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Eat. You look like a skeleton.”
She goes to the living room, makes a phone call in French, probably to my grandmother, keeps her voice low so I won’t overhear.
I eat the eggs and rice, even though I’m not hungry. Every forkful is a little easier than the last, and by the end I actually feel a pulse in my arms again.
I clear the table, rinse the dishes, and find her reading on the couch, glasses perched on the end of her nose.
She gestures for me to sit, and I do, sinking into the ancient corduroy with a creak.
She looks at me over the top of the book. “You want to tell me what’s really wrong, or you want to wait until you’re ready?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the TV, where a news anchor is interviewing a politician about something I can’t process.
She sets the book down, comes over, and puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
The words hit harder than I expect. For a second, I can’t breathe. I nod, once, and she lets it be.
That night, I crash in my old bedroom, which still smells faintly of the cheap cologne I used to drown myself in before school dances.
The bed is smaller than I remember, but the sheets are clean and the pillow has the same lumpy, comforting shape as always.
I lie on my back, hands folded over my chest, staring at the ceiling, where the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up in sixth grade are still faintly visible in the dark.
I reach for my phone, turn it on, and scroll through the unread messages.
I almost call him. I almost say, “I’m here,” or, “I miss you,” or, “I’m sorry.”
Instead, I set the phone on the nightstand, roll to my side, and close my eyes.
It takes a long time to fall asleep, but when I do, I dream about skating, just me and the ice, no teammates, no noise, just the clean scrape of blades on glass and the sound of my own heart, steady and unbroken.
———
Roland picks me up in his Mustang, the ’67 Fastback, the one that’s worth more than most people’s houses but still has a cigarette burn on the passenger seat from a night in the seventies he won’t talk about.
The car is immaculate otherwise, every chrome accent polished, the paint shining like gunmetal in the sunlight.
He pulls up at the curb, window down, shades on, and gives me the nod.
“Get in, D,” he says, like we’re running a heist.
I slide in. The leather is already hot, the scent of gasoline and old vinyl hitting me like a memory.
He’s got jazz on the stereo, low enough not to interfere with conversation but loud enough to fill the silences.
He doesn’t ask why I’m here, or if I’m ready, or if I want to talk.
He just guns the engine and heads for the freeway, the transmission grumbling like it resents every shift.
The drive is pure California, the sweep of highway out of Oakland, the scrubby hills giving way to the cliffs and the impossible blue of the ocean beyond.
He takes the scenic route, Highway One, which is objectively beautiful but so full of hairpin turns and blind curves that most people white-knuckle the whole way. Not my father.
He drives it one-handed, elbow on the window, the other hand occasionally gesturing to make a point.
He talks business the entire time. “Market’s soft, but that’s when you build. Bought a position in biotech, just to see if the boys in Basel have anything new.”
He tells me about a founder who flamed out, about a deal that would have made them both rich if not for the idiot’s “lack of conviction.” He uses words like “downside” and “liquidity event” and “asymmetric return profile” like I’m his managing director, not his kid.
I let him run. It’s easier than talking about myself.
At Point Reyes, he slows the car, then pulls off at a turnout facing the ocean. The wind off the water is brisk, cold enough to raise goosebumps, even with the sun overhead.
He kills the engine, sits in silence for a minute.
He doesn’t look at me when he starts talking. “You ever watch pelicans hunt?” He points out to the horizon, where a line of birds is gliding above the break. “They spot the fish, tuck in, and then just—” He makes a motion with his hand, straight down, no hesitation.
I watch the birds. They really do just dive, full speed, no flinch.
He taps the wheel, thinking. “In venture, the deals that scare you the most are the ones with the biggest upside. You see something nobody else does, and you move before anyone else is even ready.”
He glances at me, finally. The sun behind him makes his face hard to read, all shadows and reflected light.
He says, “The plays that look impossible? Those are the ones that win championships.”
I wait for the joke, or the punchline, but he just keeps watching the ocean.
"And relationships," he says, almost offhand. "Same thing, son. You see the opening, you take the shot."
He lets the words hang. The only sound is the ocean and the distant rush of cars on the highway.
He turns the key, engine roaring back to life, and peels out with a spray of gravel.
He doesn’t talk on the way back. We just drive, the Mustang eating up the road, the jazz turning sad and soft.
Back at the house, he parks, then sits in the driveway, engine idling. “Your mom’s inside,” he says. “She’s making you griot. You know what that means.”
I nod. “Means she’s worried.”
He smiles, but it’s crooked, almost sad. “She’s always worried. That’s her job.”
I reach for the handle, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. “Darius. You’re too smart to let a good thing get away because you’re scared of the downside.”
I look at him, really look, and for the first time in a long time, I see the kid he must have been once, the one who wanted to win every time but sometimes had to settle for second place.
“I’ll try,” I say, and he lets go.
Inside, the house is warm, the smell of pork and citrus flooding the hall. My mother is at the stove, humming, spoon in one hand, phone in the other.
She doesn’t look up, but she knows we’re here. “Set the table, boys,” she says, and we do.
We eat together, not talking much, just letting the food fill whatever cracks are left. I’m not hungry, but I eat anyway, because that’s what you do when someone loves you enough to cook.
After dinner, I wash the dishes.
My father goes to the den, pretends to read the Wall Street Journal but really just waits for my mother to join him. I hear them talking, low and urgent, in the next room.
I can’t make out the words, but it doesn’t matter.
I dry my hands, go to my room, and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about pelicans and hockey and what it means to take the shot.
I turn on my phone, scroll through the messages from Ash. I want to say something. I want to call, to explain, to tell him I’m sorry for making him carry the weight by himself.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I close my eyes and picture the ocean, the line of birds in the sky, and the moment before they dive.
I picture what it would feel like to be that sure, even just for a second.
And I promise myself, next time, I’ll go all in.
———
In the morning, the house is quiet.
The only noise is the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the click of my toothbrush against my teeth. I pack my bag slow, folding everything with an exactness that feels less like organization and more like stalling.
My flight is at ten, but I could leave earlier if I wanted. I just don’t want.
My mom finds me in my room, folding a t-shirt I never wore. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, one hip cocked. She lets the silence stretch, lets me notice her, then says, “You going back today?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.