He sits in the chair by the window and glances at the MVP trophy. “You remember that state game? You hit that curveball like it had your worst enemy’s face on it.”
“Lucky swing,” I say.
“Maybe.” He stretches his legs out. “Or maybe you watched enough film and swung enough times and not only practiced but practiced with intention.”
“I hear advice in there somewhere.”
He chuckles lightly. “Just talking out loud so you can hear the thing you already know.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you’re not done,” he says simply. “With this life, with whatever it is you think you broke in yourself. And you’re probably not done with that girl either, whether she’s got time for you this month or not.”
I stare at the bowl until the stew becomes a blur. “She chose what she was meant to choose.”
Dad shrugs. “So did you, plenty of times. Sometimes the thing you choose and the thing you want don’t jibe right away.”
“You think they ever do?”
“Have you ever met your mother?”
I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Fair point.”
We all know the story of my mother and father. He was Uncle Joe’s best friend, and Mom pined for him from the time she was a little girl and finally landed him when she was twenty-five and he was thirty-eight.
“She’s nothing if not persistent,” he says. “I fought her tooth and nail, but eventually I had to give in.”
“Because you loved her.”
“Because I loved her,” he echoes. “I didn’t want to love her, but I did. And when I finally stopped fighting it, I found a happiness I never could have imagined. Not to mention the perfect mother for you.”
I nod. Then, “It’s not the same with me and Tabitha, though.”
He stands, walks toward the bed, and pats my shoulder gently. “No two stories ever are.” He points to the tray. “Eat. Then nap. Then sit on the porch and breathe some fresh air. It’ll clear your head.”
“Doctor’s orders?” I ask.
“Mine,” he says. “And Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“Call her. You don’t have to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week. But you have to call her before it’s too late.” He walks out of the room.
Zach follows him. He probably has to go out.
I take three bites of stew and set the bowl aside.
Sometimes the thing you choose and the thing you want don’t jibe right away.
I consider my father’s words.
Tabitha chose the seminar. Her career.
Maybe she doesn’t want me. But maybe she does. Maybe she feels she can’t have both.
Call her. You don’t have to do it today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week. But you have to call her before it’s too late.
Before it’s too late.
