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Suddenly I realize, I have never asked him about his love life. He was always there for me with Trina, then later suggesting other women in his office like Kelly… But I never even asked him about other women. He has never brought it up either.
“Ron? Do you date?”
His beer bottle pauses halfway to his lips, just for a second.
“Date? Like women?”
“Yeah, women.”
Ron shrugs and drinks his beer. “I don't think about it much anymore.”
We sit in silence. I know I’m not going to get much more out of him. If Ron wanted to say more, he would have.
Finally he finds a show and his hand drops back into his lap. It's soccer, strangely. Or football, I guess is what the rest of the world calls it.
“I didn't know you followed soccer,” I say.
“I guess it’s what’s on,” he answers vaguely.
There's a team in yellow, and another team in green. The announcer is speaking so quickly I'm not sure if it’s English. It might be English. It might be just English with an accent. No idea.
“Ron… Listen…”
My voice trails off. Why is this so hard?
“Ron…” I start again. “Man, I need to ask you something.”
&nbs
p; He sets his bottle down on the end table, still not looking at me. “Ask away.”
“I was just thinking… well…”
English. I am pretty sure it’s English but maybe with something like a German accent. Pretty sure.
We sit there in silence for a good long time. I feel like half the game goes by. Finally Ron turns his head toward me.
“Were you saying something?”
“Ron… I think… I'd like to date Dahlia.”
The crowd goes wild. The announcer yells something.
“With your permission,” I add. “Only with your permission.”
“She's twenty-one,” Ron says, his voice even and implacable. “She doesn't need my permission.”
I shrug helplessly. “That might be true… But I need your permission, Ron. I need to know that you and I would be okay. That you would be okay. It's important to me.”
He gets up from the couch walks away. I don't move, listening to the thunderous sound of my heartbeat my ears. After quite a long time, he returns, sitting down and placing two fresh beers on the coffee table in front of him.
“Dahlia is… she's my girl, August,” Ron says softly.
“I know that. I have nothing but respect for that.”
He picks up his beer, watching the TV screen intently over the top of the bottle opening. After a long swig, he puts it back down.
“As long as you know that,” he continues. “You gotta know that. You gotta do right.”
