12. Luca
"I think I'm done," Dad says, pushing his plate away. "I forget how ridiculously large American portions are."
Travis chuckles. "Slide it over here, old man."
Dad pushes his plate across the table. Travis drives his fork into the steak and plonks it on his plate. Can't say I blame him for having a big appetite tonight.
"Winning agrees with you," Dad says, smiling proudly at him.
Travis, uncharacteristically, smiles a little shyly. "Yeah, well. Getting to the grand final has never been my issue. It's winning the damn thing."
"And you will, my son. You will."
Travis holds his gaze, then he nods and starts inhaling his extra portion of meat.
We're having dinner in the hotel suite the tournament is putting Dad up in. They didn't skimp on it, that's for sure. It's as big as an apartment with two bedrooms, a full-size kitchen, a dining room, and a living room.
We opted for room service rather than dining out.
Well, I opted for room service, and Dad and Travis agreed.
I intend on having a long-overdue conversation with him and felt it would be better to do it without other people around.
But for now, we're celebrating Travis's win.
I lift up my beer. "To Travis," I say, smiling at him. "For setting a new world record by making it to the grand final for the eighth consecutive year."
"To Travis," Dad says, beaming.
We clink our glasses together.
"And you have a big day coming up tomorrow, don't you?" Dad asks, and I nod.
"Yep."
I'm taking on Lattrell in the semi-final. If I win, it'll set up an epic grand final showdown with the man sitting beside me.
"You've got nothing to worry about," Travis says, taking another sip of beer. "Lattrell's…decent. But he got lucky with his draw. A couple of big names got wiped out, and he had a much easier path to the semis than you did. You've eliminated some of the biggest names. You're on form. The conditions are favorable for you. You got it in the bag."
"I agree." Dad looks between us for a moment, and I can tell something is playing on his mind. "So, uh, what happens when Luca wins?"
"We drink more beer, and I eat more of your steak," Travis answers lightly, even though I suspect he knows full well what my father is referring to.
"I don't mean to pry…"
"It's fine," I tell Dad. "We've talked about it, and we've agreed. What happens in the competition, stays in the competition. Right, Travis?"
He gives a hum of agreement around his mouthful of food. When he finishes chewing, he says, "It's not easy, but it's the only way to do it. I've competed against my brothers for years. I've lost against them, and our professional relationships have never got in the way of our personal ones. It requires some compartmentalization, but it can be done."
Good thing, then, that I know a thing or two about compartmentalizing.
I haven't been able to get in touch with my regular contact here in Hawaii, so I'm a little on edge. It's nothing too bad. Just a constant dull headache I can't get rid of. Nothing I can't handle.
I've got my semi-final tomorrow, so that's what I'm focused on.
But after that, there's a three-day break before the grand final, so I will need something to get me through that.
Not a lot. Just a moderate amount, because I'm in control. I've got this.
Dad circles the rim of his beer mug with his finger. "I heard something today."
He's looking at Travis, so he responds with, "What was that?"
"About your father. Apparently, he'll be here for the final."
"Yeah. He will be."
"How is he doing?"
"Doing?"
"Yes. It must be a difficult time for him, mourning the loss of his brother."
"Oh, that. Yeah, of course. He's, um, yeah, he's doing great with the mourning. I mean, not great, obviously. But he is mourning, which is good. Healthy, that is. It's healthy to, uh, process your feelings."
He's only had one beer, so why is he rambling like that?
Dad notices, his face etched with concern. "And how about you? How are you holding up? Losing your uncle must be hard on you, and your brothers, too."
Travis looks at me, and I try to communicate with my eyes for him to just go along with it.
I trust my father with my life, I do, but I don't want to burden him with this. Because, at the end of the day, what Travis's mother did was highly illegal. If there is ever any fallout from this, I don't want my father to be implicated or involved in any way. It's better that he knows nothing and believes that Tim died due to a tragic and out-of-the-blue heart attack.
"It's a lot to process." Travis finishes his meal, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "Honestly, Rafael, I'm putting this on hold until after the season. I, or we, might go away somewhere. Lay low for a bit."
"That's good," Dad says, his worry easing up a fraction. "Make sure you do. You and your family have gone through a lot this year. More than usual. Even for you guys."
"It has been a bumpy ride," Travis concedes.
Ain't that the truth.
After his family meeting two days ago, Travis returned to the hotel both lighter and heavier at the same time. He said he's made some headway on a few things. His brothers seem okay about the real Tim issue, Terry wants to pursue finding their half sibling, and they even agreed to return to the tour and do the show for another year.
But his father's imminent arrival is taking a larger toll on him than he's prepared to admit. He doesn't have to say it with words, I can see it for myself.
He's tense.
And absent-minded and prone to rambling when he's normally sharp and focused.
His humor isn't there.
And he's not horny. That's the biggest sign of all that something's up. When his sex drive plummets, you know it's serious shit.
I've told him I'm here for him, and he can talk to me whenever he's ready. I'm giving him space until he does.
Once we finish our meal, we retire to the living room. Travis opens the sliding doors, letting in the fresh air before he sits down next to me.
I turn to Dad. "Um… There's something we need to talk about, Pai."
"What is it?"
"Do you want me to leave?" Travis whispers. I told him tonight was the night I wanted to raise this issue with Dad.
"No. Stay. Please."
"Okay, then."
I need him here for this.
Even if he doesn't say anything, just having him near makes me feel better. Because Lord knows, I need all the help I can get for what I'm about to say.
"Is something wrong, Luca?"
Despite the question being directed at me, Dad's staring intensely at Travis for some reason.
"No. Nothing's wrong. It's just…" I glance over at Travis, and he gives a small, tight nod. "I've realized something lately. Had a bit of a breakthrough, actually."
"What sort of a breakthrough?"
"Well…"
I start with what triggered this off—the tournament paying for him to come out here. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, with his fingers steepled, listening.
"And then as Travis and I got to talking about it, I realized the issue goes deeper for me. I'm…I'm…" Fuck, how do I bring myself to say this? "I want you to have a better life, and I'm ashamed that you don't. And I feel so awful. So, so awful. And guilty. And ashamed that I'm ashamed. I'm…I'm fucked up."
"You are not fucked up," Dad says.
He gets up. So does Travis, and they switch places. "Listen to me, son. You are not fucked up."
I look up at him through teary eyes. Even after everything I said—basically insulting him and the way he lives his life—he still cares more about me and how I'm feeling.
"This isn't about me, Dad."
"Actually." He takes my hands in his. "I think it is."
"What?"
"Luca, I'm not ashamed of my life. I know I don't have a career as glamorous or exciting as yours, but I love fishing. I wouldn't want to do anything else, save for maybe oyster farming on Santa Catarina Island."
"I know. It's just…"
"What is it, son? You can tell me."
I look into his deep, dark eyes and come right out with it. "Don't you want more money? To live in a nicer house? Do cool stuff, like, I don't know…take vacations to Europe?"
A smile rises on his lips, and he lets go of my hands. "I'm sure Europe is lovely and all, but I'm happy spending my vacations visiting relatives in Brazil or venturing as far as Argentina or Uruguay. I don't like long-haul flights."
"What about the house, then?"
"I built that house, Luca, with two of your uncles. You grew up there. It's my favorite place in the world. It's my home."
And because I'm not done being a complete asshole, I ask, "And what about money?"
"I have money."
No he doesn't. "I mean proper money, Dad. Money that would allow you to live however you want to live, buy whatever you want to buy."
"Luca." He grins, which tips me off-balance. "I have over two million dollars in my savings account."
"Fuck kitesurfing," Travis exclaims from the other couch. "I should've become a fisherman in Brazil."
"And slept with a wealthy American socialite when you were a clueless teenage pool boy at a five-star resort," Dad says to him. "Don't forget that part."
"Wait." I shake my head. "Ashley gave you money?"
Dad turns back to me. "Ashley's father gave me a million dollars."
"Hang on. You said you have two million dollars? How do you have that much if Ashley's father gave you a million, I'm assuming over twenty years ago?"
"Well, see, in addition to fishing and cooking and supporting my son in the sport that he loves, I also have a passion for FX."
"What the hell is FX?"
"Foreign exchange," he explains. "It's the most traded market in the world. Way more liquid than stocks."
Most traded market?
More liquid than stocks?
What are these words coming out of my father's mouth?
"I trade currencies, Luca," he explains when he notices I'm struggling to grasp what he's saying. "Mainly the US dollar against the majors, but I also have an interest in some of the smaller, less known currency pairs. I do it for fun, and to grow the money that was given to me to look after you."
"By the sounds of it," Travis interjects. "That money was probably more about keeping you quiet."
"True." Dad nods. "But I vowed to never touch a penny of it. I just wanted to provide for my child. To make sure Luca had everything he ever wanted or needed."
I'm engulfed by a sudden wave of emotions. Everything I thought I knew about my dad, his life, my childhood was wrong.
Or, not the full picture, at least.
"You have money?"
"How else did you think I could afford all the kitesurfing gear you needed growing up? Or private lessons? Or sending you to training camps every summer except for the one time you went to stay with Ashley? Or…" He lowers his voice. "Rehab? Twice. That place charged close to eight thousand dollars a day."
My dull headache erupts, and my mind splinters. This is all too much.
I push to my feet.
Start pacing the room.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
How the fuck could I have been so blind?
And fuck.
What have I been doing this whole time? How have I repaid my father?
By disrespecting and judging him, looking down my nose at him, being embarrassed by a person who could have easily used that money for himself and chose not to. He always put me first, and I turn around and treat him like dirt.
Travis's story about the fisherman and the businessman rushes back to me.
I'm the businessman.
Arrogant.
Thinks he knows better than everyone.
Looks down at the poor, stupid brown person.
That's me. That's what I've been doing to my own father!
My head wobbles.
"Luca, are you okay?"
I register Travis's voice coming from behind me, but I can't reply. I'm finding it hard to breathe.
I stagger toward the open balcony to get some fresh air, but after a few steps, my legs give way, and I fall down.
I try to reply to Travis, but it comes out garbled.
The walls are closing in, my chest feels like someone's stomping on it, and I have no idea what's going on.
"Get some water," I hear my father say. A moment later, he's crouched on the floor next to me, holding my head in his hands. "Luca, it's okay. You're having a panic attack, but Travis and I are here. You're not alone, son."
Stars fill my vision.
"Focus on your breathing," Dad instructs, his voice deep and steady. "Take slow, deep breaths with me."
He starts taking exaggerated deep breaths in and out, demonstrating what I need to be doing, and after a few breaths, my brain catches up, and I join in.
Travis approaches slowly with an open bottle of water. Dad helps me sit up a little straighter. I take the water from Travis and throw back a few sips.
It helps.
I feel like I'm coming out of a thick haze.
"Sorry," I splutter, my throat still a little tight.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Dad says warmly, calmly.
But he doesn't understand.
I'm not apologizing for having a panic attack.
Or even for the years I've spent judging him—even though I owe him a thousand apologies for that.
No.
What I'm saying sorry for is far worse than that.
A bigger betrayal.
A monumental deception.
And not just to my father, but also to Travis who looks sick with worry. Who's put up with all my shit for so many years.
I take a few deep breaths in and out, willing the war inside me to stop raging. The shame. The fear. The guilt. The feeling of otherness. That I don't fit in or belong anywhere. That I'm an unlovable freak who doesn't even have proper sex. That I've got my pill habit under control.
I've been fooling myself.
I'm not in control of shit.
There's a reason why they say you shouldn't play with fire.
I've burned myself again.
I look at Dad, then I look at Travis, and then I finally say the thing I've been trying to convince myself I'm not for so long, "I'm a drug addict."