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The dog wiggles as I pet him, circles my legs, and then pries them open to walk between, the head moving a little too freely, very close to my balls.
“Dad, I thought you weren’t ready.”
“Now I am.”
“How did this happen?” The dog loses interest and walks towards my dad. Dad gives incredible ear scratches.
Dad shoves his hands into his pockets. “Something about this dog just nagged at me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. So, I called Priscilla and heard that Koda was returned the week prior. I saw it as a sign. No way in hell I’ll return a dog like this.”
My dad is a happy man, very positive. However, seeing him with a dog, his dog, brings light back to him. It’s nice to see.
“So, son, can you tell me why Shiloh Abbott is avoiding you?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “We were seeing each other. Romantically. It’s over.”
“What did I say about dating the employees?”
“It just sort of happened. I didn’t really plan it. I’m sorry, Dad.”
I wait for him to blow up, although I haven’t seen him truly angry one day in our life. Dad is reasonable but sentimental, a man who cries atField of Dreams, who cried happy tears when Emily told him and Mom that she was pregnant, although she was twenty. It would be nice to see the type of anger from him that I feel toward myself.
I let the thing with Shiloh go too far and the thing I feared most happened.
I lost her.
“You look like you need a beer. C’mon,” he says, motioning for me to join him in the kitchen, the dog trotting after him.
He opens a tall can of our Gold Dust IPA, our most popular beer. He pours it for me, and he pours his own, a hoarded Oktoberfest we do every year. He always insists we make extra so he can keep it through next October.
It is technically February.
We cheers and take a sip.
“What happened, son?” Dad asks, rubbing the dog’s head.
“I’m not ready for her.”
Dad nods and doesn’t say anything. I’m waiting for his words since my dad is the only one whose approval I’m desperate for.
“Has this anything to do with Amy?”
I fold my hands in my lap and look down at my beer.
“Son, I know you loved Amy. Everyone knows that. It’s okay to move on.”
I know that in my heart. But I’ve been living a certain way since she died and breaking my way of life feels impossible. I can’t move forward, and I don’t know why.
“Shiloh deserves so much better than me. I can’t give her what she wants.”
“Why?” Dad asks. He opens the cupboard to pull out his secret stash of Cheez-Its, a box he hides from Mom after she asked him to. She claims she “blacks out” when she gets her first taste of fake cheese. He offers me some, and I take a few crackers, although my mouth feels like I stuffed one hundred cotton balls in it.
“I’m broken,” I admit.
My dad looks down at his beer, giving me a break from seeing the worst parts of me. “I’ve seen you come alive the past few months you’ve been seeing Shiloh. It felt like we had the old Jackson back. It was nice.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say, sitting back in my chair.
“Tough shit, son. You’ve been avoiding this for too long, and I’m tired of it.” He smacks the counter, making the dog jump. His voice goes up a couple octaves, as he leans down to the dog. “I’m not mad at you, Koda, it’s your brother.”
