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“You played for Welles, didn’t you, sir?” I’m not sure how I mustered the courage to ask a question, but I feel a little steadier on my feet having done so.
Mr. Bennett straightens his spine and rocks his head back as he smiles.
“I did, yes. I was the quarterback all four years I played. We even have a state title in that trophy case that I was a part of.”
I nod, mentally touring the football section of our awards case.
“That means you were responsible for half of our championships,” I joke.
He drops his chin and manages another smile and short laugh. He points at me, shaking his finger, then folds his arms on top of the coat resting on his leg. The man looks like he belongs on an issue ofEsquire.
“You’re funny, Cameron. That’s good. It’s a good quality. Always keep that.”
My chest actually flutters with butterflies at his compliment. I’m so desperate for this man’s approval, my limbs feel numb simply from hearing something close to praise.
“I’ll do my best,” I answer.
He mashes his lips together as his eyes narrow in thought. The pulse I finally managed to lower jets back up the longer he studies me, and the more seconds that pass without him cluing me in, the more my stomach sinks.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Cameron. And I do hope you know that it’s because I like you. Respect you, even,” he says.
I swallow hard, steadying myself and wishing now that I was sitting for this.
“I know your situation. Not because I’m nosy, but because in my field, I have to vet out every contact my immediate family has.”
“My situation?” I’m playing dumb to an extent, drawing things out. We both know what the elephant in the room is.
“Your dad. Michael Hass. It’s a tricky story he has, and I get that. I empathize, even. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong friends. His circumstances are the byproduct of a string of wrong decisions.”
My brow draws in at hearing his explanation. It’s maybe the most accurate synopsis of my father’s sentencing that I’ve ever heard.
“Okay,” I utter. I sense where this is going, but I want to hear him say it. Maybe I want to see if he has the guts.
“I’m running for Congress. Maybe you’ve seen my signs.”
I’ve seen his signs everywhere. His signs are enormous.
I don’t even bother nodding. The bear inside is growling, and if I make any sudden movement, he’s going to convince me to say a whole lot of the wrong things.
“I can’t really be fielding questions about my daughter and her choice for a boyfriend while I’m out at meet-and-greets or on debate stages. I’m sure you understand,” he says.
“I do not,” I respond quickly. My answer earns me an arched brow and a muted guffaw.
“There’s that fire I saw on the field today.” Through it all, he’s still smiling. I feel sick.
He takes every advantage, somehow smelling my sudden weakness, and he leaves me hanging in silence.
“I don’t want you seeing my daughter,” he finally says bluntly.
I blink and raise my brows.
“Actually, youwon’tsee my daughter,” he restates.
Still speechless, I hang on his words, waiting for the joke part to break through. The longer he smiles at me quietly, though, the kind of smile I picture a gangster giving his next hit back in the twenties, the more I realize there is no punchline. This isn’t a test or a drop-in to get to know his daughter’s boyfriend a little better. Even that bullshit about football and tennis players was all foreplay for getting emotionally fucked.
He stands, straightening his coat over his arm once more before he gives me a quick nod, his silent nail in my coffin. He makes it about a dozen steps toward the exit before my bear breaks free.
“With all due respect, sir . . . that isn’t your choice to make.”
