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I pick it up and carry it out to the kitchen, my stomach sinking as I assume my dad left this for me as some little reminder to stay focused. I’m so tired of the needling from every direction. This is not the way I want to kick off a conversation with him about how wrong he is about Morgan, and how I can be both focused and close to a girl like her.
“Hey, do you know why this card was on my chair?” I hold it up, figuring my mom won’t have a clue. She pulls her glasses away from her face again and tilts her laptop halfway closed.
“Yeah, I found it in the truck. I was thinking maybe you could tell me?”
The weight of her question swirls in my belly for a second or two, and I try to respond but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is mush. Is she fishing? She can’t think Dad has a thing going on with a student.
“She’s . . . a girl,” I stammer.
A loud belly laugh escapes my mom’s tiny body as she taps her laptop completely closed then leans back in her chair.
“Well, duh! She’s a very pretty girl. I can see that from her picture.” She’s mocking me, and she doesn’t look upset. I relax a little, but now my cheeks are burning. “James . . . do you have a girlfriend?”
I roll my head at her tone. She’s enjoying this, which would be sweet if it weren’t so complicated. I drop my chin and meet her anxious expression.
“I don’t know anymore. I maybe blew it,” I admit.
My mom frowns, at first playfully, but the longer she studies my face, the more the gravity of it must set in.
“Oh, son. Come here.” She slides her chair out and drags another toward her using her foot. I shuffle her way and slump down next to her. She pats my knee.
“Tell me about it.”
I pull my mouth into a tight-lipped smile with a single laugh. I don’t even know where to begin.
“She’s . . .”
Our mother-son session is cut short as my dad enters the room, bringing with him the massive weight I got a short reprieve from. I blow out through my mouth and shift to get up from my seat.
“No, stay. Honey, our boy has girl trouble. He needs advice,” my mom says. My dad stops just inside the door and levels me with the sameOh, shitlook I’m pretty sure I had when he walked in the door.
“I’m pretty beat. And you should be focused on football, not girls. Penny, I’ve got a lot to do tonight.” He gestures toward their bedroom, but my mom leans forward with her elbows on the table and rubs her hands together, challenging him.
My dad sighs and moves to our table, dropping his bag in one chair and sliding the other out, away from both of us. He takes a seat as if he’s in a meeting with a discipline problem, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, cracking his knuckles. The air in the room is instantly thick. I glance from my dad to my mom, her forehead creased with worry. The sense of déjà vu makes my stomach turn. The last time the three of us sat at a table wearing expressions like these and showing body language like this was when my parents told me they were going to counselling.
“I can’t do this,” I say, getting up and tucking Morgan’s card in my pocket, hoping my dad doesn’t notice. But the man must be former CIA because I swear he misses nothing.Nothing.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I lie.
My mom slaps my arm and I flinch, then look at her.
“Why are you lying to him? Dave? Why is your son afraid to talk to you about this?” My mom’s eyes bounce between her husband and son, and I don’t know what to say to get out of this mess, so I do what I probably should have done all along. I go with the truth.
I pull Morgan’s ID from my pocket and toss it on the table.
“I took Morgan out the other night, on a date. And I took the truck off campus, whichI know,” I nod, as if that’s the thing my dad is going to be pissed about. “She must have left her ID in there, which is why she couldn’t get into the fieldhouse the other day. You remember when you basically put her through an interrogation?”
I probably could have left my editorializing out of that answer, but I’m just so sick of it all. And if I’m going to be honest, I’m going to betotallyhonest.
“I did not interrogate her,” my dad defends.
I puff out a quick laugh and mumble, “Bullshit.”
“James! Language,” my mom chastises.
I sigh because seriously, me sayingbullshitis so not the point right now.
