Chapter 6 - The Call He Wasn't Ready For
He tried twice more that week. I let both go.
He left a voicemail after the second one — short, careful, like he'd run through it a few times before he called.
Hey. It's Gary. I just wanted to tell you I heard what you said, and I've been thinking about it. I'm not going anywhere this time. I mean that. Call me when you're ready. No pressure.
I played it once. Then I set my phone face-down on my desk and opened my chemistry book.
Two days later he showed up at school.
Not inside — he was out in the parking lot, leaning against a car that wasn't the one from my birthday. A different one. Older. Like he'd thought hard about how it would look.
My friend Tyler spotted him first. "There's a guy out front asking for you," he said, catching me at my locker. "Says he's your dad."
I stopped. "What'd you tell him?"
"That I'd let you know." Tyler watched my face. "You want me to go tell him something else?"
"No." I shut my locker. "I'll go."
My father straightened up when he saw me come through the side door. He had on a jacket I hadn't seen before — less polished than the birthday one. More like something a person actually wears.
"I know this isn't the right way to do this," he said before I'd even reached him.
"No," I said. "It's not."
"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "I've been sitting in a hotel room for four days trying to figure out the right move, and I couldn't come up with one, so I came here instead."
"You're staying in a hotel."
"I'm not ready to leave yet." He said it plainly, without the show from the driveway. "I know I don't have the right to ask you for time. I'm asking anyway."
I looked at him. At the plain jacket. At the way he was holding his hands — not jammed in his pockets, not crossed over his chest. Just down at his sides. Open.
"You talked to Coach Doyle," I said. "For how long?"
"Two seasons. Like I told you."
"What did he say about me?"
My father hesitated. Then: "That you were the hardest worker on the team even the year you didn't start. That you never once complained. That the other kids liked you." He paused. "That you reminded him of somebody who was going to turn out fine."
I looked out at the lot. "You paid him."
"The booster club—"
"Don't." I turned back. "Don't dress it up. You paid a man to watch me and report back, and you told yourself that was staying connected."
He didn't flinch. That was something.
"Yes," he said. "That's what I did."
"Why not just call me?"
He was quiet a long moment. "Because I didn't know what you'd say. And I wasn't ready for it to be no."
The honesty of it landed different than I expected. I didn't go soft on him. But I stopped bracing for the next angle.
"I've read some of the letters," I said.
Something moved in his face. "Yeah?"
"She wrote about you. The year I turned twelve."
He waited.
"She said she didn't think you were a monster. She said she thought you were young and scared and you made a choice you told yourself was temporary."
He looked down at the asphalt.
"She was being generous," I said. "More than you had coming."
"I know."
"But she said the decision about what to do with you was mine." I watched him. "So here it is. I'll meet you. Once. Somewhere that isn't my house and isn't my school."
He looked up.
"One conversation," I said. "I'm not promising you anything past that."
"Okay," he said. Quiet. No performance in it.
"And you don't get to talk about Wade," I said. "Not once. Not to compare, not to compliment, not to explain yourself. His name doesn't come up."
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." He held my eyes. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."
I told him Saturday. A diner two towns over, someplace neither of us had any history. He nodded and didn't push for more.
I went back inside. Tyler was waiting just past the door. "You good?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
He nodded like that was a fair answer. It was the most honest thing I'd said all week.
That night I told Wade. Not Mom — Wade first, because I needed to say it out loud to somebody who wouldn't react, who'd just take it in and let me figure out how I felt by listening to myself talk.
Wade listened. He didn't say anything until I was done.
"You want me to drive you?" he said.
I looked at him.
"Saturday," he said. "I can drop you off. Wait somewhere close by if you want. Or not. Your call."
I thought about it. "Yeah," I said. "Okay."
He nodded and went back to the dishes.
I stood in the doorway a second, watching him. The thing about Wade was he never made you feel like you owed him for anything he did. He just did it and moved on, and somehow that made you feel it more.
Mom called from the other room — something about the laundry. Wade dried his hands and went to see what she needed.
May you like
I picked the box up off the table and carried it back to my room. Three letters left.
I opened the one from the year I turned fourteen and read until the house went quiet.
