Page 7 of Deceiving Grier

I stood up from the sofa, swept my thumb over the screen, and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hi, Dad.”

“Grier, are you at home?” His voice sounded soft and thready, so different from the man I’d grown up with, and yet I could still hear the authority and faint reproach in his tone, and he hadn’t even dug into the reason for his call.

“Yeah. I just got in from work.” I climbed the stairs and went into my room, switching on the light and closing the door behind me. My bedroom was the smallest of the three, with just enough room for the double bed, a dresser, and a desk under the window. I didn’t really care about the size of the room. Between work, practice and school, I wasn’t home enough for it to matter. But this bedroom was the only room with a view of the ocean, which I did like. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Though I’d be better if your mother would stop her fussing.”

“She’s just worried about you.”

“I don’t know why.”

Maybe because you have chronic leukemia, and you won’t listen to the doctors when they tell you to slow down and take care of yourself. I kept my thoughts to myself, of course. Instead, I rolled my eyes and stretched out on the bed. “What about the new meds? Are they easier on your stomach?”

“I told you, I’m fine,” he snapped. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “How’s the team? Are you pulling your weight?”

I swallowed the inexplicable lump that had suddenly thickened in my throat. “Yeah, we’re having a good season so far. We won our last two games.”

“You make sure you keep working hard. Don’t think you can start slacking off because this is your last year. They can pull your scholarship at any time if you’re not working hard enough.”

I don’t know what I’d said to make him think I wasn’t working hard, but he didn’t need to drive home his point. I knew how precarious my position was. Since my father’s diagnosis, my parents had burned through their savings to cover my father’s treatments and medications. There was no safety net for my schooling. No scholarship, no degree, and I hadn’t worked this hard just to lose it all in my last year.

“I know. I’m working hard.”

“What about your studies?”

“I got a ninety-two percent on my last test.” I loved my father, but sometimes I wished I could just have a normal conversation with the man instead of feeling I was at a job performance review, having to justify my existence or wind up fired.

“It’s early in the year. You need to stay focused and not let yourself be distracted. Have you had a chance to review the projections your sister sent to you?”

He’d finally worked around to the real reason he’d called, and I cringed a little inside. “Not yet. I’ve been busy with school and practice and work and just haven’t had a chance.”

“Damn it, Grier.” My father sighed. “What do you think you’re even doing at that school?”

I didn’t answer right away, assuming the question was rhetorical. Instead, I wished for a hole to climb into. The man was sick. I should have made more time to look at the reports Fiona had sent before now.

“Well?” My father snapped.

“I’m getting a business degree.”

“You’re supposed to be learning how to run Miller Gloves. This is your family’s legacy. I need to know you’re taking this seriously, that you’ll be able to keep the business going when I’m gone.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, hating myself a little. I knew he would worry when I didn’t get back to him on this. I should have read through the financials as soon as Fiona sent them over. My father wasn’t well, and I shouldn’t have been aggravating his stress. I just had so much schoolwork and hadn’t had an opportunity to look at it all.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll go through it all tonight.” I had a paper due, but I could work on it after. Though, I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t wind up pulling an all-nighter.

“I need to be able to count on you, Grier,” my father said, the flat disappointed tone in his voice leaving me feeling small and ashamed. “People depend on us for their livelihoods. Step up and take this seriously.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

There was a light knock on my bedroom door, and Jett stuck his head in. “I’m ordering pizza. Do you want some?”

I nodded, and Jett ducked back out of my room.

“Sorry,” I said to my dad. “That was—”

“Do you have a man there?” My father asked, his words suddenly clipped.

“Just Jett, my roommate. I told you about him.” My parents knew I was gay—I’d come out in my senior year of high school—but it wasn’t something we discussed. While they assured me they loved me and said nothing openly homophobic, they were clearly uncomfortable with my sexuality. So, in true Miller form, like anything that made my parents uncomfortable, they pretended it didn’t exist.

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