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When he stands and dusts himself off, I ask, “Did you see the new building going up at the corner of Dobson and Main?”
The wrench clangs in the rusted toolbox when it’s dropped among the other tools. “I’m not an apartment kind of guy.”
“They look really nice. Great views of downtown. Someone else can fix the pipes if they break, and the sale of the house would be real money in the bank.” This is the only home I’ve known. This is the place where he and Liz . . . I still can’t bring myself to call the woman who gave birth to me mom. This is the house where they once lived together, loved each other, and brought me home from the hospital. I’d be kind of sad if he sold this place. Still, it would be worth it for the gain he’d get, money he’ll never have working twelve-to-fourteen-hour days in the garage.
Squatting, he packs up the toolbox and then stands with it in his hands. “She’s not much, but in a few years, she’ll be all mine once I pay her off. Then I never have to owe anyone for anything.”
“Other than taxes.”
“You know what I mean, pipsqueak.” He comes over and ruffles my hair. I could complain about the nickname or the hair like I did when I was a teen, but I don’t get these moments as often these days. Between work and school, I treasure our Sunday dinners. Time slows down when I’m at home, and I breathe a little easier. “There’s value in not owing anybody anything.”
I nod.
My dad raised me by himself since the day Liz walked out the same door I just entered. I was two when this gruff—six-one, ex-high school football player, heart of gold of a guy—took on the role of both parents, raising me with a strong work ethic, which is one of the reasons I got a full ride to college. But it’s his values that never waver.
He relied on one person in life, and she let him down, so he stood on his own after that with his chin held high, even when it meant sacrificing his own needs.
I intend to make it up to him one day. It’s not that I owe him that. John Summerlin would be the first to argue I don’t. It’s that he deserves it. He deserves to have fewer worries for all the burdens he’s carried.
Opening the back door, he says, “Hope you’re hungry for burgers. I’ve already got them on the grill. Grab a soda and seat out here and tell me about your week.”
I follow him out onto the cracked concrete patio, digging through the cooler he stocks for us—beer for him, soda for me. “I’m old enough to have a beer, you know?”
“I know.” He doesn’t say why he only ever offers me soda, but I already know. He wants to keep me young, his little girl, for as long as he can. Not that he cares if I drink since I’m twenty-one, but I’ll oblige because it makes him happy. I pop the top on a Sprite and sit in a plastic Adirondack chair I bought him for his birthday a few months ago. After almost falling through a canvas chair he’d left out in the weather for ten years, the upgrade is nice.
He returns from the garage empty-handed, grabs a can of beer, and sits in the matching chair. “Tell me about your week.”
“It’s boring,” I reply, leaning my head back on the chair.
“Not to me.”
I grin because I have the best dad. “Normal week of classes, but I was assigned a paper on Monday. It took me an hour of work every night to get it turned in on time on Friday.”
“How’d you do?”
“We haven’t received our grades yet, but I think I did well.”
“That’s good. You mentioned last week that you had two shifts this week . . .” He leaves the inquiry open-ended for me to fill in.
So I do. “Wednesday was serving the psychology department. I guess it’s an annual dinner they do to talk about how their goals are being met so far after the first month of school. It was easy. Just me and Larry, but the money was good because they left a big tip.”
“That’s good. You socking it away?
“No, but I put it toward paying rent for next month, though.”
He raises his can. “Getting ahead. That’s my girl.”
Hoping to distract him, I get up and open the grill. “These are looking good. I’ll get the veggies ready to go.”
“Already done,” he says, not making a move. “Sometimes dinner with you passes too fast, so I did what you taught me and prepped ahead.”
Grinning, I reply, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”
He chuckles but gets right back on the track I was trying to detour. “And the other shift?”
I hesitate, twisting the metal top of the can around. “It was actually out at The Pointe Estates.” I glance up to see his eyes stuck to his well-loved Carhartt work boots.
“Huh.” Shaking his head, he says, “Larry must be doing good to get back into their graces.” His tone turns just like it always does at the mention of the Estates. He looks at me as if he’s seeing me in a new light, seeing me as a grown woman. “Did you make good money?”
