Page 2 of Father Figure

“Me too. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

And then Nicky was in my arms, hugging me tightly. I squeezed him back, knocking his cap askew. He looked up at me and laughed, the freckles across his nose spreading wider with his grin.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cass.”

“Me too, kid.”

He always smelled like sandalwood and vanilla, his favorite body spray.

“Here, Dad, get a picture of us together.”

I slid my arm around his shoulders and pulled him into my side, smiling big for the camera. Then a group of his friends descended on him, claiming his attention.

“Hey, I’m going to go, but come see me soon. I’ll take you to lunch and we can celebrate your graduation.”

“Thank you for coming. I’m so glad you’re here.” He reached up on his tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

Short little squirt. I had close to six inches on him. I waved to Brian before heading to my car.

“So, how’d it go?”

Samson shuffled around me as I stood at the sink, washing our dinner dishes. My home was small, just big enough for me, and the tiny galley kitchen was barely big enough for the both of us.

“I ran into Brian. I guess it went fine.”

“What was fine, the graduation or Brian?”

“You’re hilarious. He barely said two words to me, just waved, and I took a picture of him and Nicky.”

“I bet he was glad to see you.”

“Who, Brian or Nicky?”

Sam gave me a cut-the-shit look. “Nicky.”

“Yeah, he looked pretty happy. Did he really think I was going to miss his graduation?” I scoffed. Ridiculous.

“Well, the season is underway, and we’re pretty busy.”

“I’ll never be that busy. You should’ve seen him. He looked so good in his cap and gown, all smiles,” I mused, smiling to myself. “I can’t believe he’s graduated. Next, he’ll be going off to college somewhere.”

“Has he said where he’s planning on going yet?”

“No, not yet. I told him I’d take him out for lunch this week to celebrate. I’ll find out what his plans are then.” I picked at a burnt glob of cheese stuck to the plate with my thumbnail and sighed.

“Here we go,” Sam sighed dramatically. He did dramatic well.

“What?” I asked, glancing at him over my shoulder.

“You’re gonna get all weepy.”

“I am not.”

“Yeah, you are. Next, you’re gonna start with the shoulda, coulda, woulda’s.”

Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes at my best friend. He thought he knew me so well. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. You are.” He leaned against the painted, wood-paneled wall with his arms folded across his chest. “I’d bet ten bucks the next words that were about to come out of your mouth were going to be something about how maybe you could have made it work.”

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