Page 47 of Unlucky You

I smiled and rolled my eyes. Our parents had gifted both of us cars as graduation gifts. That was Sameena’s first taste of the luxurious life. It spiraled into a proclivity for wanting high-end things, no matter the cost.

My sister had been dead set on getting a BMW. I was more practical. I asked for a Kia SUV Sportage. Her BMW, as pretty as it may have been, was not practical. Our father agreed to purchase any vehicle we wanted within reason. However, the one rule he stood on was that we had to work enough to handle the maintenance of our cars. He did his best to talk Sameena into something more economical, but she refused. He was a man of his word, so a deal was a deal. She was given a midnight blue BMW and although it was only a 2 series, the lowest end of the spectrum, my sister quickly learned she couldn’t afford the upkeep. Our father refused to foot the bill which meant she went without proper care and burned out the engine.

She just recently purchased a new car, an Audi, which now carried a seven hundred dollar car payment while I happily drove my Kia, which I upgraded last year and was able to get a great trade value from the one my father purchased years ago.

“I have a car payment too.”

“You also have a hundred gazillion mile warranty. I have one hundred gazillion dollar oil changes.”

“Don’t be mad at me. Blame yourself. You picked that expensive ass car. It’s pretty as hell but not worth the headache.”

“My baby is not pretty. She’ssexy.”

“And attached to gazillion dollar oil changes.”

“Mind your business,” she said through a smile. “What day do you want to go?”

“Does Friday morning work for you? I’m trying to get a facial so my skin is popping for my date Friday night.”

“Yeah that’s cool. I don’t have anything else lined up this week.”

“Okay, booski. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I was about to hang up when I remembered what tomorrow was.

“Hey, are you coming tomorrow?”

“Shit, that’s the main reason I called. I can’t. I have to be at work early. Tell Dad I’ll be there next time. I promise.”

When the call ended, my search on Grand was in view again. I worked the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to decide whether to keep digging or if I had enough details. It only took me a few seconds before my hand was on the mouse and my finger lowered to open the next link. Even before I knew his story, or rather the one I was piecing together, I’d felt a connection to this man and his life. Knowing what he suffered only made me more curious.

The next morningI rolled out of bed at six, showered, dressed, and was in my car armed with a backpack that held my custom ball and shoes—a gift from the old man—headed to Pin Pals to meet my father. No one in their right mind wanted to beat a bowling alley at eight in the morning but this was important to the old man so I made an effort to show up once a month at whatever time he set for our meetup. It was always at random times because our schedules were all so scattered.

This month the agreed upon time was eight and I hated that Sameena wouldn’t be here because our father looked forward to it. He was an amazing father. Present, understanding, and caring, but as with most daughters, relationships shifted according to growing pains. When my sister and I hit puberty, we shifted closer to our mother, which hurt his soul. We didn’t know how much until he randomly dragged us out of bed one morning and announced that he was teaching us how to bowl. My sister and I were not happy until our mother explained that this was his way of finding a place in our lives.

Since then, once a month, this had been our ritual. He took us to Pin Pals, gave us lessons on bowling, and in the process got caught up with our lives. We learned a lot from him and about him and he learned a lot about us. We damn sure didn’t learn to bowl because he was terrible at it but truly made up for his lack of athleticism by being an amazing father who did everything in his power to prove that to his daughters.

His smile was what greeted me as soon as I walked in. He was waiting near the counter dressed in old jeans and a button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a trucker hat pulled down low on his head with all thirty-two on display.

He opened his arms and I stepped right into a hug which felt like home. “I missed you, kiddo.”

“You just saw me a couple weeks ago.” I smiled into his chest and threw my head back to see his face.

“Am I not allowed to miss you?”

“You are.” He kissed my forehead and let me go, glancing at the door. “Your sister on her way?”

I shook my head. “It’s just us this time. She’s not coming.”

“Why not?”

“Work.”

“Hmm.” He nodded but I sensed the disappointment.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, life happens. I’ll take that for you.” He motioned to my backpack. I slipped my arms from the straps and let him take possession, instantly feeling lighter without the eight-pound ball weighing me down. There was no point in arguing. My father was old school—carrying bags, opening doors, and pulling out chairs. It was who he was and it set the standard for the type of man I should have wanted in my life. My sister and I were hardheaded. We always desired the opposite of the man who raised us.

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