Page 162 of The Best Shot

My father accepted the interruption without complaint, already standing, already somewhere else.

“Good game,” he said.

“Good game.”

We shook hands.

“You never said why you couldn’t go with your girl.”

“I’ve got responsibilities I can’t leave.”

“Responsibilities?”

“My father is sick.”

Harry’s face softened instantly. “I’m sorry, son.”

“Me too.” The back of my throat burned. “Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“If it was your boy,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Sitting home from a woman he loved. Staying because of a sick father he couldn’t leave.” I made myself look at him. “What would you tell him?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His aide had come up quietly behind him, waiting with one hand not quite touching his elbow.

“I’d tell him to go,” he said. “Job’s to get him ready to go. You do the job right, they go.”

Simple as that. Like it was obvious and had never been a question at all.

He let the aide guide him toward the path, then stopped after a few steps, turned. “He’d want you to go. Your father. Whatever’s wrong with him. He’d want that for you.”

For one second, he looked at me like he knew exactly who I was. I wanted very much to believe he did. But I knew better.

“Thank you, Harry.”

Then the aide said something about supper, and Harry turned away.

I watched them cross the park until the grass went silver and they disappeared beyond the trees.

My father had spent years teaching me how to build a life, but somewhere along the way I’d stopped living my life and started standing watch over it.

I walked back to the car, sat with my hands on the wheel and didn’t start it.

Yasmine’s voice came back to me.

I love you.

I took out my phone.

Christchurch was eleven days away.

For the first time, I let myself look.

47

“YOU GONNA OPEN THAT DOOR?”

YASMINE