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At the sound of a deep, thickly-accented voice, I almost choke. Spluttering, I turn to my father. The gray-haired man with a weathered, deeply-lined face eyeing me warily under the brim of his Stetson hat.
Billy John Lane. Lover of silent disapproval and tough love.
Sudden giver of compliments?
A long, bewildered, slightly breathless moment passes before I manage to cough out a confused, “Thanks?” Cringing at my raspy tone and the pretzel particles I spray everywhere, I swipe a hand over my mouth and, like the polite southern woman I am, add, “You too.”
Daddy chuckles, such a small but disarming noise because when was the last time I heard it without an underlying tone of malice, a reprimand or a sarcastic comment seconds to follow? Never, I’d guess. “Your mama says I’m past my prime.”
He says it in jest but it makes me flinch. Makes me realize I can’t remember the last time I heard my parents say something nice about each other. Makes me wonder if that’s affected my psyche more than I’d like or care to admit.
I recover quickly, pasting on a tight smile as I glance over his shoulder, half hoping I’ll see the rest of Team Texas approaching. “Are y’all heading out or something?”
Clear eyes, a lighter shade of green than the women in the family, take on a knowing gleam, hinting that however hard I might’ve tried to hide the hopeful note in my question, I didn’t completely succeed. Daddy lifts the takeout cup in his hand, ice clinking as he gives it a shake. “Just getting a drink. Saw you and thought I’d…” Say hello? Apologize? Bestow upon me his first compliment of my adult life? Either he’s as unsure as me or he changes his mind about whatever he’s going to say because he clears his throat and pivots. “How are you?”
Oh, y’know. Pregnant. Jobless. Stressed. Living with one baby daddy. Being sued for custody by the other. “I’m good.”
“How’s work?”
“I’m not working right now.”
“That’s unusual.”
Is he cracking jokes? With me? For quite possibly the first time in my life, at the very least for the first time I can remember? My gaze drops to his cup, and I briefly wonder if the Diet Coke I know it holds has been spiked with something harder. “I’m on maternity leave.”
“Right.” Just for a second, his unreadable gaze drops to my stomach. “So, you’re living with that baseball fella?”
“Cass,” I correct, my jaw cocking. “Yes, we’re living with him.”
“Do you think that’s smart?”
Clearly, he doesn’t. “Daddy, I’m not having this conversation.”
“It’s reckless, Sunday. You barely know this man.”
“His name isCass.”
“Oh, I know his name. How can I not when it’s splashed all over the Internet?”
God, I am so not doing this. I start towards the field but Daddy pulls me to a stop, a hand gently cupping my elbow. “You should come home. None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t left.”
“We left because we weren’t happy. You and everyone else made sure of that.”
“Youweren’t happy. August was perfectly fine.”
“August wasmiserable. Do you think it was easy for him? Watching y’all treat me like shit? Do you think he didn’t know how y’all felt about him, that he didn’t hear y’all call him a mistake so many damn times?”I ruined your life, echoes in my ears.Everyone said it. “I don’t want him to be fine, Daddy. I want him to be happy and safe and surrounded by people who love him.”
‘We—”
“No, you don’t. If you loved him, you’d never support John doing what he’s doing. Why are you doing it? Do you really love him that much more than me?”
“You think I love the man who knocked up my teenage daughter?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re, what, petitioning on his behalf, right?”
I swear, regret flashes across his face. When it’s gone, I realize I’m reading him wrong. It’s not anger crumpling his features, reddening his face; it’s frustration. And I don’t know but my gut says it isn’t aimed at me, even if his words are. “It’s the right thing to do. A boy needs his father.”
God, I am so fucking tired of that bullshit rhetoric. “August needsme. As far as I’m concerned—fuck, Daddy, as far ashe’sconcerned—he doesn't have a father.”
