Page 44 of Sure, Pal

20

Evan

My phone rang as I pulled open my parents’ front door. Ava. She’d been calling me almost every day “just to check on me.” She was throwing all of her mad love and attention at me, but I didn’t find it irresistible anymore. I found it irritating as hell.

And every time I saw her name flash across my phone, I was reminded that Sienna still hadn’t told her about us.

Fuck. I didn’t have time or energy to be hurt and offended over it. I rejected the call, then walked inside and found my mom and Bea in tears on the living room sofa. That sight was nothing new. I gave them both quick hugs and asked, “Is dad awake?”

My mom nodded, and I headed up the stairs. My parents’ bedroom door was cracked open, and I could see Charlie perched on the edge of their bed, reading the newspaper to my dad. My dad’s headaches and vision were so bad now that he couldn’t read the paper himself.

I slipped into the room and sank down next to my little sister.

“Evan,” My dad addressed me with a stern look, interrupting a news article about the highway expansion project that would be completed long after he was gone.

“Dad.” I gave him my most optimistic smile.

“I hear you gave up your soccer contract with Cali United.”

Charlie folded up the newspaper, patted me on the shoulder, and walked out of the room.

I traced a blue square on the patchwork quilt that covered the bed, avoiding my dad’s piercing gaze. I did give up the contract. Practice started next week, and there was no way in hell I was heading to another state to play a stupid game while my dad lay here dying. “It’s the semi-pros. The pay is shit, and the fame is non-existent. It’s not a ticket to the pros by any means.”

He sighed and leaned back on his pillows, scrunching his eyes shut against his likely headache. “Son, if you want to quit soccer because you want to quit soccer, then do it. But if you think that you’re going to quit soccer because of me… well, I’m not too sick to still whip your ass!” My dad’s raspy deep laugh shook his body.

I grinned at him. “Okay, old man. Let’s take it out back, though. Mom doesn’t like fighting.”

“That she doesn’t.” My dad smiled and shook his head. “She’ll be okay when I’m gone, you know? She’s tougher than she looks.”

I frowned. I didn’t like it when he talked about his own death like this. I was still trying to deny its inevitability.

“What about you, son?”

I sighed. “What about me, dad?”

“Will you be okay when I’m gone?”

Not even a little bit.

I smiled and asked, “Am I not as tough as I look?”

“You tell me, Evan. Will you take care of yourself? Will you do all the things you want to do in life?”

“Sure I will, dad.”

“What do you want? What are you going to do to take care of yourself?”

I laughed. “Dad, I’ll be fine.”

“Humor your old man so I can die in peace.”

I squared my jaw. “Don’t say that shit, dad.”

“I think I will say it because it’s the truth!” He propped himself up in bed as much as he could. “Son, I need to know that you’re going to be okay. I need to know that you’re going to take the right path, not the easy one.”

I’d taken the easy path with school. I didn’t even apply to any Ivy Leagues. I went to the college that would give me money for kicking a ball around.

Hell, maybe even soccer was the easy path. But was it easier to give up or keep playing?

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