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His abrupt shift in topic makes me laugh. I turn back to him. “Yeah.”
“He makes you happy?”
The smile that spreads over my face is a more than obvious answer. But then I shrug. “He makes me happy, but … it’s difficult. It’s a long-distance thing. We were supposed to see each other tonight, actually, but his work kept him back a day.”
My dad grunts, then stares down at his beer. “Don’t force it. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”
I snort. “You’ve been using that line since I was a teenager. I remember wanting to join the soccer team, and you were all, ‘If it’s meant to be, it’ll be,’ and when I didn’t make the team, you said I was clearly meant for greater things.” My smile fades. “I want to be a vet, Dad. That’s what I’m taking classes for, to get my animal biology degree. I want to save the lives of animals … to help defenseless creatures who can’t always speak for themselves.”
“Defenseless creatures …” Those words seem to warm his heart. And when he looks at me again, there are tears in his eyes.
Suddenly, I can’t stand the table between us. I get up and throw my arms around my father. He does the same and with just as much intensity, and the pair of us remain like that for some time, him sitting, me standing over him, embraced tightly in each other’s arms. Nothing else needs to be said.
I think we both know what it is between us that no words can touch.
After that, every last bit of tension between us seems to evaporate, and before I know it, we’re on our third cans of beer, laughing and talking about my sisters’ antics. Memories of my childhood burst from both our nostalgic eyes, filling my otherwise silent, dark living space with overdue joy.
Suddenly it’s after three in the morning. “Dad, were you planning on driving all the way home?”
He’s still recovering from a story he shared about Mom that made us both crack up. He wipes tears out of his eyes. “Uh, yeah, son, I … I guess I was. What time is it?”
“Don’t even think about it. Shoot Mom a text. Stay here. Take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I bring my dad to my room. He takes one long look at my bed, then eyes me. “Is this where you and your fifty-two-year-old boyfriend have sex?”
My answer is a deadpan stare.
He squints critically at me. “I’ll take the couch, son.” With that, he pats me on the back on the way out of my room, then breaks into another fit of laughter, likely thinking yet again about that funny story involving Mom. I bring my dad a blanket and a pillow, situate him, then drop onto my own bed without bothering with a change of clothes. And as I listen to the soft noise of the TV, which my dad turns on in the living room, I pull out my phone and text Richie, giving him an update on my eventful night, from my mugging, to my arm, to Connor’s big announcement and Brett’s, and to the surprise arrival of my father. I lay my phone on my chest and wait for him to reply as I close my eyes, but before he does, I’ve drifted off to sleep, feeling oddly more at home than ever.
I’ve never slept so peacefully in all my life.
The morning comes fast, and when I open my eyes, I feel so fucking rested, I nearly float to the kitchen. That’s where I find my father, fully awake, cooking breakfast with whatever he could find in the kitchen. I join him for a cup of coffee—the sole morning requirement we both very much share—and chat about nothing at all. My arm complains a bit, the sting making itself known, but a painkiller helps drown it out. We move to the tiny table and enjoy breakfast under the warm morning sun that pours in through the small window, spilling over our plates like another kind of syrup.
That’s when I hear a knock at the door. “Hold that thought,” I tell my dad, who was in the middle of sharing his plans for a back patio renovation at the house involving a fish pond. I hop out of my chair to answer the door, pulling it open recklessly.
Richie stands there.
Handsome. Hair cleaned up from a fresh cut. Beard trimmed. Slacks and a fitted polo, showing off his physique. His hands are in his pockets, and behind him stands a single suitcase, which is rather impressive, considering this man does not know how to pack lightly.
Also, this might be the worst timing.
Or maybe the best. “Richie,” I breathe out.
“Isaac,” he greets me, a note of urgency in his voice. “I got your text and replied at once, and I didn’t hear back, but I knew I had an early flight to get here anyway so I would see you soon, and … Are you okay?” He looks down at my arm, then winces at the bandages. “Oh, no. Let me see it.” He takes my arm gently, observing its length with a pained look in his eyes. “If I was here …”
