Page 45 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“You know you like your new friend,” Becca teases. “I saw you petting him on the couch.”

“You didn’t see anything,” he insists. “Can’t eat with that brat looking at me.”

“Come here, Barney. Let’s get your dinner.” I coax him away from my father and head into the kitchen to fill Barney’s bowl.

Becca breezes past me and says, “I’ll get the garlic bread.”

“And the wine,” I say as I refill Barney’s water bowl.

“On it.” Becca holds up a bottle of wine in one hand and the basket of garlic bread in the other.

After feeding Barney, I head back into the dining room. “How hungry are you, Dad?” I reach for the spatula.

“I can do it myself,” he snaps, swatting my hand away.

I hold my hands up in surrender, exchanging a frustrated glance with Becca, and we sit down. My father braces one hand on the table and pushes to his feet, as if he can channel any numbness from his other hand into the furniture to prove he can serve himself. Maybe he can. I don’t know how bad the numbness has gotten with this flare-up because he won’t freaking admit that he’s having one.

His hand shakes, but he manages, and then Becca and I serve ourselves. As I put my napkin in my lap, I say, “Dad, I wish you hadn’t gone on that trip.”

“I’m fine,” he says, gripping his fork tightly.

“It’s a good thing it’s your shot night,” I say gently. He takes his monthly shot at night, and though he usually takes ibuprofen and sleeps well that night, it can take a day for him to recover from the flu-like symptoms it causes. I hate the idea of adding to his misery, but at the same time, it will force him to slow down. “You need the rest.”

His dark eyes meet mine, stern, unwavering. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying that you need—”

“You’re always just saying. I take the damn shot every month, don’t I?”

“Only because I’m here to make sure of it,” I say as Barney saunters back in, heading straight for my father.

“Shoo, brat,” he says, nudging him half-heartedly. Barney stays right there, his tail wagging faster.

“He knows you’re bluffing,” Becca says.

My father glowers at Barney. “Pain in the ass.” He pets Barney’s head. “Now go away.”

Barney sits. Becca and I stifle laughs.

As we settle into dinner, my father moves slowly, his shoulders rounded forward, fatigue etched in every movement.

“So, Dad,” I say, “how was your trip? How’s Steve?”

“Fine.”

“Fine as in good, or fine as in you landed in jail and had your other buddy bail you out?” I ask teasingly.

“If it’s the latter, then thank you, buddy,” Becca chimes in.

Dad chuckles, then looks at me and says, “The ride was long, gas prices were too frigging high, and Steve snores. But the band was good, and so was the beer.”

Becca holds up her wineglass. “Sounds like the highlight of your year.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” I say as he sneaks a piece of bread to Barney under the table. “Dad, did you just feed him?”

“No,” he insists, and takes a bite of garlic bread, avoiding my gaze.

“It’s a good thing we never had a pet.” Becca takes another drink and puts down her glass. “The poor thing wouldn’t know which way was up.”