Page 73 of Break Your Fall

“AndI’m out,” I announce as my goodbye, making a quick departure to the sounds of Julian’s laughter and Camille’s yelling as Banks orders Julian to help him find it.

I get back to my house soon after my dad does. I slow my steps to a stop once they hit the driveway, watching him round his car from the driver side with a briefcase swinging from his hand. My mouth goes dry and my stomach spasms as I try to think of the words I should say to conjure a conversation out of him, the slightest bit of interest and compassion.

I don’t know why I’m bothering. We’re both wearing shirts now, but he’s still not on my team. I chuckle at myself, then watch him stroll the walkway toward the house as if he’s not walking into a failed marriage with a failing son standing a few feet behind him.

“Dad.” My voice proceeds my charge forward and as I jog to catch up to him, he stops and looks back at me, his stare open, welcoming until the sight of me reminds him of our last conversation and he looks ahead, away from me, only turning around once I’m upon him.

“I’ve had a rough day, Tommy,” is his greeting, and my mind plays through what he could have said, the things I’ll probably never hear him say again.

Hey, how was your day?

You hungry? Let’s see what Mom’s whipped up.

Mom’s whipped up tears for a life without her husband because said husband quit giving a damn while the son in this scenario is edging his own precipice, but it’s only Ashby Holloway’s rough day. So unless I’ve got some good news about my future, he can’t be bothered.

I hear you, Dad, but I’m not listening right now.

“I’m not having the greatest day myself,” I say to jog his memory, my tone soft enough to let him know he’s not alone, yet pointed enough to remind him that the war inside our heads, the struggles that are now trying to ruin our family aren’t just about him.

“You can turn yours around,” he says with a push in his voice and a point of his own in his stare.

My mouth opens, too baffled to speak. My father expects me to control my happiness. Like I can snap my fingers and right my feelings when he can’t even do that himself. But, you know, if I can manage it, if I can pick up a ball and throw it through that hoop behind me, he can continue his stroll inside the house as my biggest fan again, thus turning his day around and solving half of our problems while he listens and ignores Mom behind those walls.

“Yeah, I can change falling out of love with something, right, Dad? Love Mom again. It’s that simple.”

He holds up his hand to stop me with a slight nod that implies he understands my deadpan, but it’s not enough to earn me words. He doesn’t want to hear his own mistakes while he wants to remind me of mine. But before he can even attempt to split us further, I try to repair, make a promise, some verbal tape to cover the fractures.

“If it comes down to it, I’ll get a job. I’ll save my money, find a different college, and get a career then. It won’t happennow, but at least it’ll happen, and I can take basketball out of the equation and reignite my love for it.”

My eyes are on the concrete at our feet as I realize that last part, all of my hopes and fears meant mostly for myself was said out loud. And they sounded decisive, spoken like I’ve already made up my mind, all while my father sighed, silently dismissing the plan like it’s out of the question.

I meet his dubious stare as he steps closer to me, taking my words as my decision that he scratches out with his next ones. “You have no experience.”

“That’s not justmyfault,” I argue in defense of my previous life choices. My parents never made me get a job so I could focus on school and basketball.Eye on the ball, right, Dad?“I’ll get experience,” I assure him, but his doubt runs deep.

“And what are you going to do? Huh? Get a regular, soul-crushing nine-to-five job like the rest of us? Come home with one of these in your hand”—he waves his briefcase—“and an attitude in your mouth? Enough misery to lose the woman you married?”

I sigh at him now. What my dad fails to understand is that’s exactly how I’ll be if I go to Blareton feeling like this. If I work like hell and play basketball when my heart’s not in it. I’m already halfway to becoming him.

I will never.

“We never wanted that for you, Tommy,” he says. “You’re far too talented, and you’re throwing away everything you’ve worked for—”

“I don’tknowwhat I’m going to do,” I cut him off this time, clarifying to him and to myself that my mouth may move before my brain can think, but I havenotmade a decision. “But you should trust that I’ll figure it out. Have some faith in me, Dad. I really need that now.”

I’m a kid, begging his parent to give a damn.

I’m a son who needs his father.

And said father is silent, observing me like he doesn’t know who I am as I wait for him to show me he’s still the dad I know he can be.

He walks away.

I feel every step, each new fracture.

“Dad.”

I’m left standing here, alone and rejected for another time after pleading for help, for him. I know this is more complicated than just basketball, and whether or not he can see that, his choice should be simple. There shouldn’t even be a choice. I’m his son and he’s abandoning me over a fucking sport.

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