Page 50 of Smooth Sailing

I felt that loss, too much, but I buried it and nodded again.

“I bet. Since she made a man like you,” I noted.

“What’s that mean?”

I fished a chip out of my bag and asked, “What do you mean, ‘what’s that mean?’”

“You think you know the man I am?”

I stared at him.

Then I said, “Well…yeah.”

He sat back, already done with his food, outside the cookie they included with every sandwich (maybe he didn’t like cookies, and even though that would shock me to my core, if he didn’t, that meant I could eat it), and he asked, “Enlighten me. What kind of man am I?”

“Well, you rode down from an entirely different state to see to the safety and protection of a woman you’ve never met. Doing so requires you to sleep on a couch, which, for a man your size, I know isn’t comfortable, no matter what you say. I’ve noticed you’re you. People take you as you are and that’s it. The confidence of that is striking. You’ve inspired the loyalty of other good men and give it back. I haven’t known you long, but there’s a lot there. Of course, this could all be about you and that was who you’d grow up to be. But I suspect she didn’t play only a small part in that.”

His voice sounded strange, coarse, even guttural when he stated, “She didn’t. I am what she made me.”

I reacted to his tone, thinking this was deep for a sandwich joint and two people who were probably ships passing in the night. And as much as the last part sucked, since it was likely true, I didn’t need to put him through it.

I popped my chip in my mouth, chewed, swallowed and said. “Anyway, I’m sorry you lost her.”

“I am too.”

“Are you gonna eat your cookie?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I frowned.

His beard moved as his lips tipped up.

It was hot.

Crap!

It was a small cookie, and he made a show of putting the entire thing in his mouth and chewing it.

“Very uncool,” I noted.

His lips tipped up again.

Then without a word, he got up and walked away.

I suspected he was going to the bathroom. What I knew was, there wasn’t a lot left of my lunch hour, and I had a deadline on an oil-painting cleaning. I needed to eat so we could get moving.

I focused on my sandwich and chips (I was going to save my cookie for an afternoon snack), and was trying to decide if I could get myself to a place I didn’t care what people thought if I shook the dregs of the chips into my mouth straight from the bag, when I heard my phone vibrate in my tote.

I pulled it out and saw it said Father Calling.

Ugh.

I wanted to let it go to voicemail.

After yesterday and my conversation with Nicole, I couldn’t let it go to voicemail.

I took the call and put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Dad.”

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