Page 13 of The History Between Us

“Got it.”

I’m in and out in less than five minutes; the lift chain was broken, but that’s an easy fix. After I place the lid back on the back of the toilet, I jog up the stairs and squeeze in a quick shower before the food’s done. Once I toss my dirty clothes and wet towel in the hamper, I join my dad in the kitchen again, getting a couple of plates down, grabbing the silverwareout, and pouring us each a drink. My dad drinks milk with dinner every single night without fail, so after I get him some of that, I pour myself a glass of the pinot noir I picked up at the store this past weekend.

After we dish up our plates, we take a seat across from each other at the table in the dining room and dig in. As I knew it would be, the pasta is incredible, and my taste buds are singing their praises with each bite.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask my dad.

“A bit better,” he replies gruffly. “The sore throat and cough I had earlier this week have seemed to subside.”

“That’s good.”

“I think I’d like to get a dog,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere.

Brows furrowed, I stop mid-chew to glance over at my dad, confusion swirling around in my mind as he continues to eat. “I’m sorry?”

“I’d like to get a dog,” he repeats. “I get bored during the day when you’re at work, and I think I’d enjoy having a furry companion around the house. We could watch television together, play fetch in the backyard. We could even go for short walks around the block for some exercise.”

Where is this coming from?“You hate dogs.”

“I do not.”

“Dad, every single time I asked for a dog growing up, you told me they were nothing but nuisances who track mud through the house and get into shit.”

He scoffs. “I did not.”

I bite down on my molars, not wanting to argue with him about something so menial. “Do you know what type of dog you want?” I instead ask.

Nodding, he brings his napkin up from his lap, patting hismouth. “I was looking on the shelter website earlier today, and saw they have a cute Dachshund available.”

“How old?”

“Only a couple years old.”

“You know, that’s a big responsibility,” I say. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

“Oh, Will, can you not talk to me like I’m a child, please?” he grumbles. “I’m a grown man, and I’m fully aware of what goes into caring for an animal. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m decrepit.”

Clearly, he’s feeling extra spicy tonight. “Would you like me to go down to the shelter with you so we can take a look?” I ask softly. “The free clinic isn’t until next weekend, so we could go this Saturday if you’d like.”

“Maybe. I’m going to call down there in the morning and see if he has anybody interested in him. I don’t want to risk him being adopted before Saturday. That’s three days away.”

“We’ll need to go to the pet store before bringing an animal home, Dad.”

“I know that.”

Heaving a breath, I say, “Okay, give them a call in the morning, and let me know how it goes. I should be home fairly early tomorrow if we need to drive up there earlier than Saturday.”

To be honest, having a dog around the house may be nice. I’ve always loved the idea of having one, but it’s never worked out. When I was younger, my dad refused, and once I got married and moved to Seattle, Annie and I worked entirely too much for it to make sense.

Once we’re both finished eating, I clear the table and get started on the dishes while my father heads into the living room to watch the news from his recliner. It’s a nightly thingfor him; dinner, news, bed. Roger Andino is nothing if not routine. I’m not exactly one to talk, though. I find comfort in my life of structure too. After I finish cleaning the kitchen, I grab my book and stroll out onto the porch, where I sit in the rocking chair and read as the sun sets. Sometimes I’ll do crossword puzzles instead of reading, but almost every single night, I enjoy sitting outside as the light of day fades, the same way I enjoy sitting out here with my coffee in the morning and watching the sunrise.

By the time I finish reading a few chapters and head inside, my dad has already gone to bed. I amble up the stairs, going into the bathroom to brush my teeth before climbing into bed for the evening, all while making a mental note of everything I need to do if we really are going to bring a dog home. There’re about half a dozen things we’ll need to pick up at the store. Maybe I’ll stop there on my way home tomorrow.

Grabbing my phone off my nightstand and unlocking it, I scroll through social media. Typically, I try not to mess around on my phone right before bed because I notice those are the nights I find it harder to fall asleep, but I have a handful of emails and messages that I want to get to before the day is done. On Instagram, I see that Max posted a story—something he doesn’t ever do. Clicking on his little circle icon, the story pops up, and I can tell it’s a reshare of a story Colt posted and tagged him in. It’s just a photo of them together that Colt took. The two of them couldn’t look more opposite. They share the same bright green eyes, but that’s where their similarities end. Colt has thick, dark brown hair, whereas Max is more of a dirty blond. Colt has Trish’s full pink lips where Max’s are on the thinner side—something I never even noticed until I looked at this photo of them side by side.

Against my better judgement—something I always seem to lack around Colt—I click on his profile, surprised by how many followers he has. Close to a hundred thousand, but I suppose that’s not all that wild considering how well known he is in the rodeo world. I may not keep up on the professional rodeo circuit, but I’m not blind; I know what an icon he is. One of the youngest world championship winning bull riders at twenty-three, Colt is practically a household name, just like Max was during his time.

Memories of our conversation we had at the diner come back to me. The way he admitted to feeling compared to his dad, and how hard that is for him. From where I’m at, he’s not exactly wrong, but he’s not right either. Yes, he’s compared to Max. He always will be, that’s just a fact. But he isn’tjustMax Bishop’s prodigy. Colt’s been pro for only a few years now, but he’s already made a name for himself, and that’s coming from someone like me, who, again, doesn’t keep up with this world.

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