Page 40 of Make The Cut

But now, hearing his phone ring, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. My palms start to sweat as I pace the floor. I rub my forehead, feeling sweat bead there. Why should I feel so nervous about calling my father?He’sthe one who betrayed us.

He’sthe one who made the mistake.

But it’s not true, not entirely.

Part of me is wondering if I should have forgiven him long ago instead of letting old wounds fester.

But as soon as he picks up and I hear his voice again, I change my mind.

“Naoya! I’m glad you called.” It’s mid-afternoon for him there, so he must be in the middle of… I don’t even know. I haven’t been to visit him in years. I don’t know what his usual working day looks like anymore. I don’t know anything about my father except his sins. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Anything else?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “Happy birthday.”

Tears threaten to well up in my eyes. I shouldn’t be so affected by my father saying happy birthday to me. But it sounds wrong like a slap across the face instead of a warm hug or a curse word said in church.

It sounds like the words of a man who loves his family, and my father is anything but that.

“How did you celebrate?” my father asks.

“I went to the betting track.” I stare at the fan as the blades swish across the vaulted ceiling.

“You did, huh?” He’s well aware of my stint in rehab. “Well, how much money did you put down?”

I shouldn’t say anything. I should make him feel guilty, as I’ve always done, and make him feel like he messed me up so badly that I’m now a debauched libertine who wastes his life on partying and women. But I can’t.

“I was just there with a friend.” I don’t want to lie about Poppy, but I don’t want my father to know about her, either. Part of me wants to protect her from him, even if it means keeping her a secret. “I was showing her the horses.”

My memory of Poppy gingerly petting a horse, extending her hand to give him a lump of sugar without being terrified that he’d bite her fingers off, makes me want to laugh. Her expression of determination and bravery—maybe that’s what made me call my dad. Because she faced her fears, she made me feel brave enough to face mine.

“That’s good.” He coughs. “What else did you do?”

I touch the scarf around my neck. On other birthdays, I might have gone clubbing with an entourage of women who didn’t know about anything about me except for my name. This year, I just need one girl. Poppy.

My friend.

“Nothing much. I had ice cream cake.” I rub my nape. “You said you had news to tell me, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” He gives another cough, this one louder—more like a hacking sound—than the first. Anxiety and dread coil together in my stomach. “I’m getting remarried.”

Well, that’s why I never speak to my father.

“Towho?” I demand.

He’s silent. Silence from my father is never a good thing.

“A woman I’ve known for a long time.”

A woman he’s known for a long time.

Goosebumps crawl across my arms as bile creeps up my throat, and I have to stop myself from throwing up.

“You’re getting married to your mistress, aren’t you?”

More silence. I’d take a denial over this emptiness of forcing me to guess.

“Well, thanks for the birthday wishes, but I have to go now. See you for my next major life event. Maybemywedding? Bye, Dad.”

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