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I take a swallow and then tap the lid. Youthful me might have prayed for the people ahead, people whose morning is going way worse than mine. Kind of feels like another life, my church days. I used to say God was the one who left. Now, I don’t see how He’d want me back.
Hollie would need a man whose faith was solid, and—
And I got no business thinking about the man Hollie needs. Heck, I’m not even sure she’d want a man if he dropped out of the sky and into her lap. Not only is she frustratingly independent, that wide circle of personal space she maintains screamsback off. There are trust issues there. Created by some particularly ugly event?
Yeah, it’s hardly a real question. The occasional glimpses of fear in her eyes preface a story. If I ever find out the name of the raging lowlife, I—
My phone rings, and Mom and Dad’s number pops onto the dash screen. At this hour?
I mash the button on the steering wheel. “Dad?”
“Morning, son.”
“You alright? Is Mom okay?”
He chuckles. “We’re fine, John. How are you this morning?”
“You do know what time it is, right?”
“Uh…” There’s a pause. “Five-twenty.”
I snort. “Exactly. Sun won’t be up for at least an hour.”
“Are you telling me you aren’t already halfway to the office?”
“That isn’t the point. You should still be in bed.”
He makes a sound. “Don’t you know old people get up with the chickens?”
“You spent most of your life up with the chickens. No need to continue now. Besides, the chickens are still asleep and I could have been in bed.”
This time his laugh is full. “Aw, I know you better than that.”
Because I’m just like him. Well, the old him. I wish I were more like the man he is now. “Okay, what’s up? Hit me with it.”
The beat of silence is precisely long enough to verify my suspicions. “Tyler called last night.”
Bitterness coats my throat. My parents can communicate with my son at will, but me? I need an invitation just to call and get sent to voicemail. Kind of ironic, too. Where does Tyler think I got my work ethic and single-minded career focus? “I see.”
“Now, don’t get that tone. He asked me to call and invite you to Brayden’s birthday party on Saturday.”
I snort. “Sure he did.”
“You calling me a liar? That’s what he said.”
“After you suggested he invite me?”
“Nope. It was his idea.”
“He could have called me himself.”
“Could have—but you know what they say about looking gift horses in the mouth, John.”
Another snort, and I’m not apologizing. “So you’re saying I should just hoover up the crumbs he tosses me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Gotta start somewhere. Healing takes time.”
Who is this man calling himself my dad? He’s great now, but it took two heart attacks and a car wreck to get the man to slow down at seventy-two. I can’t count the number of birthdays he missed growing up.
