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“Humor me, dear. Put on your watch. Show it off.”
My father slipped on the watch, its heavy bracelet glinting in the light. “I love it, honey. Thank you.”
My gaze fell on the Rolex and I got a bad feeling, flashing on my senior year at Penn State. I wasn’t graduating because I had to take a statistics final and owed a Spanish paper, but the school let me walk in the graduation ceremony. My family arrived that day with my gift, a stainless-steel Rolex Submariner.
My mother beamed.We’re very proud of you, son.
My father forced a smile.Take care of that watch. It should last a lifetime.
Thanks, you guys. I slipped on the watch, but I didn’t feel Rolex-worthy. I had doubts I’d get my degree after a college career of terrible grades and excellent partying. I ended up wearing the watch tograduation, feeling like a fraud. I didn’t earn a diploma, so I never wore the Rolex again.
My father eyed me hard. “TJ, have you been drinking?”
“No, I’m sober.”
“Youswear?”
“Yes, I swear I’m sober.” I met his eye evenly. I felt solid in my sobriety, 708 days and counting, almost two years now, but I was only five months out of prison and court-mandated rehab. My father loathed that I was an alcoholic because his own father had been. I had to train him to trust me again, a problem reserved for excellent liars.
“You’re not back with bad actors, are you?”
“No, Dad.” I’d cut off my old drinking buddies, a tenet of AA, and I’d never see those friends again. One of them, nobody would ever see again. I felt an anguished twinge but stuffed it down.
“I won’t pay for another rehab, son.”
“You won’t have to, and I’m paying you back for the first one.”
“Are youusing? Because if you—”
“No, I’m not,” I interrupted, since I can’t stand to hear him sayusinglike he’s in-the-know. I was a beer guy, not a drug addict. A heroin user I met in rehab joked that beer was a pussy addiction, but listen, beer was everywhere, with beer goggles, beer bellies, andHold my beer. Every sport ran beer commercials. When was the last time you saw a heroin ad?
My mother interjected, “TJ, it was about Carrie, wasn’t it? Are you trying to get her back?”
“Mom, no.” I missed Carrie every minute, but she’d never have me back. I forked some cake into my mouth, eating my feelings. Luckily, they were delicious.
Gabby called from the kitchen, “Dad, lay off TJ! He was working on something for me!”
My father lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Why didn’t you say so before, Gab?”
“Because it’s on that pro bono case you hate!”
“Which one?”
“What’s the difference? You hate them all!”
I smiled inwardly. I love my sister, the family peacemaker, our own Swiss Miss.
My father turned to me. “TJ, if you were working on Gabby’s case, why did John go with you?”
I stalled to think of an answer, finishing my cake. “I needed to borrow money, okay? I didn’t want to ask in front of everybody, then we ran into traffic.”
“What did you need the money for?”
“New brake calipers.”
“Ta-da!” Gabby grinned, entering the dining room with a gift wrapped in tartan paper. My sister was cute, with amused green eyes set close together, a turned-up nose, and a smile like on an Amazon box. She wore her hair in a practical short cut and was dressed in a simple cotton sweater and jeans. She was followed by her husband, Dr. Martin Ngobe, a Nigerian-born surgeon who’d been repairing cleft palates in Kenya when he met Gabby, who was also volunteering there. Martin was a warm and bulky six foot two, also dressed casually in a sweater and jeans. Gabby and Martin wanted to save the world, but I told them to get busy in the bedroom. It’s always the wrong people who reproduce.
My mother clapped at the gift. “How exciting! Happy birthday, dear! Tick tock…”
