Page 84 of Slots & Sticks
Dante reaches forward with every intention of grabbing the front of Sergio’s blazer. Just before his hands close on the fabric, Sergio bats him away.
“I’m getting up.” He slips past his father, who immediately claims the abandoned leather chair.
Once Dante’s sitting down, he adjusts his suit jacket. Sergio is doing the same thing with his blazer. They dust off their shoulders in near unison and, to my great amusement, Dante steeples his fingers. For all their arguing, they’re so much alike.
Dad huffs a laugh under his breath, the sound rough but real. It’s the first time since we parked that something in him eases. Score one for the home team.
“Ranger. As you know, we’re bringing the magic back. And we can’t do that without you.” Dante lets his bifocals slide down his nose as he side-eyes his son.
Dad inclines his head. “Thank you, Dante.”
“That’s why you’ll have a scooter here. And I want to make sure you have PT. And if you want a grief counselor, we’ll get you one of those, too.”
Dad doesn’t respond to that one right away. His throat bobs. After a moment, he lifts one hand to wipe at his eyes. “Th-that’s incredibly generous. Thank you.”
I force my eyes away from his face. If he starts crying, then I’ll start crying, and I’m supposed to be here to support him.
The hard lines around Dante’s eyes and mouth soften at the sight of my father’s hunched posture and welling eyes. “If you need anything at all, let me know. Personally. Renee knows how to reach me. I can’t imagine—” He bites off whatever else he wasabout to say and clears his throat. “Sergio, where did I go wrong with you? We are all about the magic. We don’t leave a man behind.”
I’ve never seen anyone speak up for my dad in that way—not since Mom. And certainly not in front of a man who sees the world as a chessboard. But here’s Dante, flipping the whole table to keep one old coach safe.
Segio hunches in the corner with a sullen frown. He’s the only one of us not on the verge of tears. “I was going to hold his job. Find a temp for the season. Give him time to heal.”
“You could have listened to him instead,” I point out, though with less heat and more weariness than I would like. “Instead of talking over him like you did.”
Dante sizes me up, then nods his approval. “I agree. You don’t heal a man like Ranger by putting him out to pasture. You meet him where he stands, or sits, and you carry him up the mountain if need be.”
Sergio wrinkles his nose. “What mountain?”
Dante smacks his palm on the desk. “It’s a metaphor, goddamn it. Did you learn nothing in school?”
Sergio mumbles something under his breath, but his father isn’t listening. Dante leans over the desk, his eyes fixed on Dad’s. “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Delilah’s manager reached out a little while back. Seems like a bunch of her old colleagues want to do a tribute concert. I told her I could make it happen, but I wanted to make sure you’d be able to weigh in, since you missed the memorial.”
Dad opens his mouth, but no words come out. His lips move a few times.
“Think about it. I’m not going to ask you to do any work on it, but I have a few questions. We could do it as a fundraiser. Get together some funds for one of the shelters where you got your strange little rat-dogs, if you like. I have a list of questionsthat you can answer when you’re ready. Just let me know when you’ve had time to sit with the idea for a while, okay?”
Dad’s fingers curl on his knee like he’s grabbing for a hand that isn’t there. For a second, he can’t find his voice; when it comes, it’s papery and reverent. “She loved a good encore,” he whispers, mostly to himself.
Dante reaches across the desk to shake his hand. “Family first.”
His words are an echo of Camden’s from the other day, and hearing them puts the pressure back on my chest. Family. My version of family has always been so skewed, between feeling estranged from my mom and out of place with so many of my peers. My dad is all the family I have left, no matter what Cam and Dante say.
The Giovanettis usher us out of the office only to see that Renee has parked the scooter right outside the door. Dad uses it to leave the building, and all the while I’m thinking about Camden. About Mom. About how people can be there one day and gone the next.
Once we’re both settled in the car, I turn to Dad. “Well, at least you didn’t get fired.”
Dad lets out a halfhearted chuckle. His head tips sideways to rest against the window, and he stares out into the mostly empty lot, although I’m pretty sure his mind is elsewhere. “Yeah. That’s a relief.”
It should feel like a victory lap. Instead, it feels like crossing a finish line to find no one in the stands. The quiet between us isn’t empty; it’s crowded—with her. With everything we didn’t say to her when we had the chance.
And I think we’re both afraid it could happen to us, but we’re too traumatized to start.
“Do you need anything?” My voice is pitched too high, too eager. “We could stop on the way home and get something to celebrate?”
“I’m okay. I just want to lie down, Dottie. This day has been exhausting.”
For the whole drive home, my hands clench the wheel. Dad doesn’t utter a word. I want to turn on the radio to fill the silence, but I’m afraid that if I do, one of Mom’s songs will be in the rotation. I’ve heard her music a few times lately in random places like the grocery store or the pet shop, and every time, it’s like someone snuck up behind me to kick my knees out from under me. If it hurts me that much, I don’t know what it would do to Dad.
