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“Why Roni?” I call to her. “Veronica is a pretty name.”
“Because I wanted to be taken seriously in a man's world.” She sets two chilled water bottles and her phone on the table and settles beside me, not close enough, but I can catch the flowery scent of her shampoo or bodywash. I need her closer to figure out which. “I had no desire to be a reporter like my father, but I did want to stay with sports. So I decided on photojournalism.”
“Why freelance?” Reaching for one of the bottles, the back of my hand grazes her knee.
“I made that decision from the start. It was scary, especially when everybody else from my class signed on with newspapers and magazines. I admit, I worried I wouldn’t be able to pay the bills. But I knew I was good. I just had to take the risk and hope I could sell my photos. Thanks to my father, I already knew the drill and had some connections.”
“Do you travel a lot?”
“I do, but that’s by choice. I have my favorite teams that I like to follow.”
“The Mayhems?” I can’t help but grin when I’m rewarded with a rise of color in her cheeks.
“Of course.”
We’ve both shifted a little, so there’s only a few inches between us, and her body is turned so she's facing me. An image of us stretched out on this couch during a heavy make-out session rolls through my mind. She’s waiting for me to continue my story, but my throat tightens, and the words stick in my mouth.
“I didn't think I had a shitty childhood for the longest time.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice, and my heart is pounding against my rib cage. I swallow hard, pushing down the anger that threatens to overtake me whenever I think about my father.
Roni reaches out and places her warm hand on mine. “It's okay, you don't have to go into too much detail if you don't want to. Just tell me what you feel comfortable with.”
I take a deep breath and push the memories back into the past. “I didn't know my father. I never remembered him in my life. It was just me and my mother. She worked two, sometimes three jobs. I spent my days at school and my afternoons at the community center before she picked me up after she finished her shift. Sometimes, if she worked late or had another new job, I'd take the bus home or walk when the center closed and wait alone until she showed up.”
“Oh my, God. How old were you?”
I shrug. “Seven. Eight. Before that she had the building manager or a neighbor watch me when I was too young to be on my own.”
“I'm sorry, Drew.”
I glance at her, feeling fire in my veins. “Don't be. I loved my mother. She worked hard. I tried to be a good kid so she wouldn't worry.”
“And where was your father?”
I laugh, but it's a cold, empty sound. “When I asked, my mother told me stories of a man who loved sports. All sports. In my mind, I fabricated a loving father who was a sports hero. I had him up so high on a pedestal. I told all the other kids about my famous dad.”
Roni squeezes my hand, and I look up to meet her tender gaze. “And then one day, when I was twelve, he shows up out of the blue. At the rec center, no less. Said he was there to pick me up and take me home.”
“You must have been excited.”
“Stunned is more accurate.” I assumed he was dead. What other reason could he have for staying away? I figured he'd hit the height of his professional career, and something terrible happened, an accident maybe, and he died.
“I'd never seen this man before, so I had no reason to believe him. I refused to go. Put up a huge fight about it, too. Until the people at the center called my mother to let her know what was happening.”
“What did she say?”
“Said he was my father, and he was there to pick me up and bring me home.”
“Did you go?”
I shake my head. “Not with him anyway. The man looked like a bum. Unshaven, rumpled, dirty clothing. He stunk of alcohol and cigarettes. I stood my ground. Said I'd take the bus home.”
I take a deep breath, ready to spill the rest of the story for the first time ever.
“I discovered later that he used to beat my mother, and she worried he'd start beating me, so she kicked him out. He was a gambler. And not a successful one. He owed some dude a lot of money, even tried to pimp my mother out to make some quick cash. When that didn't work, he robbed a liquor store. Ended up in jail.”
Roni slides over so we’re thigh to though and snuggles close against my chest, tucking her head under my chin, one arm slung across my stomach. I let out a deep sigh and relax, wrapping my arms around her and hugging her tight as we fall back against the cushions. A moment ago, I’d been desperate to have her in my arms, my lips on hers. But this is nice. Maybe even better.
“It's okay,” she whispers. “You don't have to tell me anymore.”
