Page 94 of Houston, We Have a Problem
“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask and grip the strap of my bag, forcing myself to keep breathing. Of all the times for him to show up, it had to be now? I’m more likely to blow up on him than have a civil conversation, and I’m exhausted from keeping things in during practice. I won’t be able to hold back now, and already a familiar resentment is bubbling up inside me.
I don’t think this can end well for either of us.
He clears his throat. “I was hoping to see you practice, but I couldn’t get in.”
“That’s for a reason,” I growl.
“Houston.”
Gritting my teeth, I finally turn and grace him with a glance. He looks better than the last time I saw him, though anything is better than drug-addicted and violent. He’s gained some healthy weight, gotten a haircut, put on some clothes that actually fit.
“How long have you been out?” I ask reluctantly. If I had my truck, I could walk away from this conversation instead of having it, but maybe this is good for me. I can get all the forced pleasantries out of the way and never speak to him again. Everything will be up from here on out.
Dad ducks his head, clearly embarrassed by the fact that he just got out of prison. Or maybe he’s just feeling the strain of this as much as I am. “’Bout a week ago,” he grunts.
“Do the others know?”
He nods. “I went and saw Brooklyn yesterday.” He must see the way my hands clench into fists at the idea of him being anywhere near my sister without me there because he lifts a hand. “Jordan was with her. And I called first.”
I make a mental note to hug Jordan, though I’m a little hurt that Brook didn’t tell me that our dad was here. She must have had a reason. Maybe she just knows me too well. “Chad?” I ask.
He shakes his head, and I’m surprised by the sadness in his navy eyes. We all got our blond hair and blue eyes from him, but he has always looked dim and dull compared to my siblings. That hasn’t changed much, even with his forced rehabilitation, but this expression reminds me so much of Chad that it hits me harder than I’d like. He’s still my dad, no matter what he’s done.
“Chad won’t talk to me,” he says.
I doubt that will ever change. Chad already made his peace with our father years ago, but that doesn’t mean he wants to reconcile. I know he’s forgiven him, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Chad talk about him willingly. He saw too much of the damage Dad caused and had to pick up all of the pieces, and that burden is something that can never go away.
“So,” I say, shifting my weight and praying Darcy shows up soon. “You’re out.”
He nods. He’s fidgety as he stands there, though whether he’s nervous or uncomfortable, I’m not sure. “Yeah. On probation, obviously. I was hoping…” He swallows. “I was hoping we could catch up, like I did with Brooklyn.”
“Nope.” That word comes out easily. “If Brook lets you in, that’s her choice, but I don’t need you in my life.”
I have never been more relieved to see my truck appear at the other end of the parking lot, though I wish I had a way to get rid of my dad before he can see Darcy.
I grip my duffel tighter. “You missed my whole life up until now, so I don’t see why you deserve to be a part of the rest of it.”
“Houston.”
I have nowhere to go, so I reluctantly meet his gaze again.
“Congrats on winning the Series. That’s really amazing.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If he thinks that’s enough to get me to reconsider, he’s going to have to do better than Google my name. “Thanks,” I mutter, wishing Darcy would just gun it across the parking lot. Then again, I don’t think my truck can actually go that fast.
Dad keeps talking, as if he knows that as soon as that truck pulls up, he’s out of chances. “And that game two seasons ago where you caught the ball that came right at you instead of ducking away from it? Incredible.”
Darcy finally arrives, pulling up to the curb.
I make it two steps before Dad speaks again. “Remember that perfect game you threw in college? And three strike-outs in a row. As soon as I saw that, I knew you were meant for great things. But it was the game before that that told me you had become a good man. When you apologized for hitting that batter with the ball even though him walking cost you the game.”
I’m frozen in place. I remember that game vividly, though most people forgot about it because it was a loss. I don’t think there were any stories written about my apology, but I remember the moment being on local TV. The newscasters mentioned my good conduct and then moved on. But if Dad knows about that, it means…
I turn back, staring at him. “You watched my games?” I croak. That was after he went to jail, when he was at his lowest.
Nodding, he stuffs his hands into his pockets as if he knows he needs to keep his distance still. But I can see the eagerness in his eyes. “All of them. Whenever I could. I’m so proud of you, Houston.”
Ask me ten minutes ago if I would have wanted to hear those words, I would have emphatically said no. But as I stand here staring at the tears in my dad’s eyes, a tiny crack forms in the armor I’ve kept around my heart specifically to defend against him. He’ll never make up for failing as a father my entire childhood, but maybe I can find it in myself to forgive him and move on. Like my siblings did.
