“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it could be worse. It sure is great to see you, Son.”
“How’d Rob get you here?” I ask.
“Well,” Dad says, staring at the horizon. “He told me he was a huge fan - that’s why he named the show after my hit song. He wanted me to be a part of the show somehow. And then he spun a tale about how his own dad was a drunk and died before they had a chance to reconcile. Said that he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to make things right between us.”
“Did he now?” I say. “Did his dad pass before or after he met his fiance, using my app?”
“Huh,” my father shakes the seaspray off his hat and repositions it. He smiles wryly.
“Do you think any of it’s true?” I ask.
“What’s the difference? He didn’t get me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. I’ve been dying to reach out to you and your sister for years. I was just too chickenshit.”
“What did he tell you about us?” I ask.
“He told me your sister’s getting married, to someone he knows. We got to talking, and he asked if I knew about your app, which I did not. And then he told me how your company’s been struggling. He thought that maybe you’ve been struggling a bit, too.”
I consider this. “So you thought, what? You’d just show up and try to fix me and all would be forgiven?”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Dad echoes the sentiment from the card he left in the envelope. “But I was hoping that maybe we could stay in touch. And maybe over time, if you feel okay with it, you and your sister could let me back into your lives. Just a little. On a trial basis.”
The boat bucks, jumping over a wave, and I sit down hard, reaching for a rail to hold onto. Dad barely budges. It’s like his feet are glued to the deck. He was always like that, on surfboards and on boats. Steady on the water and tipsy on the ground. It’s like he wasn’t made to navigate life on land.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” he looks surprised. “Just like that?”
“I can’t speak for Chelsea, Dad. It’s not like either of us can erase the past. But I’d like to stay in touch more.” I reach into my pocket for the sobriety chip. “And you should probably keep this. It’s a big accomplishment.”
“Thank you.” Cappy pockets the chip and sizes me up. We sit in silence for a few minutes before he speaks again.
“Tell me about your matchmaking app,” he says.
“We analyze several factors to create a predictive long-term compatibility model,” I sum it up with my elevator pitch.
“Crunchy vs smooth peanut butter? Regular or delicate underwear loads? This is your idea of love?” Cappy looks at me with disgust and spits into the passing water.
“It may sound trivial, but these are all critical factors when it comes to assessing long-term compatibility.”
“Bullshit,” My father laughs. “Your mother and I had absolutely nothing in common. And look what happened?”
“Umm, what happened with you and Mom is pretty much the reason I created the app,” I say. “The two of you were a total trainwreck. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“We weren’t a trainwreck because of a lack of love or compatibility, Jackson,” my dad says. “We were a trainwreck because I’m an alcoholic.And let me tell you, if your mom and I hadn’t loved each other and you kids so much, it probably would have ended way worse. For sure I’d be dead. What happened to our family was my fault. But it had nothing to do with love.” He takes off and shakes his cap again, but it’s clear he’s just using this as an excuse to wipe his eyes. “I’m sorry it affected you this way.”
“What way?” I say defensively, “In the make-a-success-of-myself way? The make-life-better-for-other-people-instead-of-making-it-a-living-hell way?”
“No, the dumbass, pigheaded, chickenshit, afraid-of-love way,” Cappy kicks the boat into a higher gear, and we pick up speed, going faster each time we slap down over the waves. “You’re what, thirty-four? Thirty-five? Tell me about your last serious relationship.”
“I don’t do those,” I fold my arms around myself, shivering.
“Why not?” my father reaches for a beach towel and tosses it at me. “Wrap yourself up in that. It’s clean.”
“I just don’t. I’m not interested in that kind of thing,” I say automatically, only realizing when the words are already halfway out that it’s not how I feel.
“Really?” Dad says. “Then you won’t mind if we do a spot of fishing before you get back? I hear the snappers are biting.” He cuts the engine.
“I’d rather get back,” I clench my teeth.
