The Real(72)

But women can scar, they can always scar, if you let them.

And Max was right. She took advantage of the fact I wouldn’t hit her back.

It was a nightmare on a consistent and predictable spin cycle.

Foolishly I checked my phone and saw that I had nothing to look forward to. Instead, I stared at the screen saver, a picture of us on Abbie’s front porch on New Year’s Day, the day she reached her goal of five miles. It was my favorite picture and had the opposite effect it had the day before. Raw inside, I gave into temptation and flipped through more pictures while my heart hammered as a reminder that in no way was it over for me. Even as angry as I was with her refusal to listen, or that she slapped me, I couldn’t believe we were done. But I needed peace. It was the only thing keeping me sane. And I needed a distraction because Abbie was far too angry, and I had too many fresh bruises.

For the first time when it came to her, I didn’t trust my judgment to make any call.

I had games to coach. My only saving grace.

I’d barely toweled off from my shower when there was a knock on my door. My hopes of who was behind it dashed when I opened it and took a step back.

“Dad?”

“Hey son,” he said casually, a smile briefly touching his lips. “I know it’s early. Hoped you might be up.”

He’d lost a few pounds since Christmas. He seemed smaller in stature, his hair in need of a cut. He looked lost, as if he was uncomfortable standing there.

“Can I come in?”

“Sorry, yeah,” I said, opening the door wider to let him in.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks,” I said holding the knob as I watched him walk around. He looked completely out of place in my living room.

“I would have come sooner but I wasn’t invited,” he said dryly as he studied the picture of me, my mom, and Max that sat on one of my end tables.

Ignoring his sarcasm, I shut the door. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. What happened to your face?”

I shrugged. “Got rough on the court.”

He eyed me warily and I moved toward the kitchen his sarcastic timber unmistakable. “I don’t recall basketball being that hands on.”

“Shit happens,” I said with a shrug. “Want some water?”

“Sure.”

Pushing the dispenser on the fridge I stalled, reluctant to let him get a good look at me. Walking over to him, I handed him a glass and made a quick excuse. “I’m just going to go throw some clothes on.”

My father nodded as he continued to inspect my apartment.

Minutes later and freshly dressed in sweats and a hat that I felt confident would cover the bruise next to my eyes, I walked out to join him in the living room. Leaving the ball in his court, I waited as he looked out the window watching the passing traffic. “You like living here?”

“Sure.”

He absently smirked at my answer while he kept his attention outside.

“Dad, what’s up?”

“Are you still seeing Abbie?” When I remained quiet he turned my way. “No?”

I shook my head and he didn’t miss it. He scrutinized me far too closely than I was comfortable with. “That’s a shame. I really liked her. I liked when you brought her home for Christmas. It was . . . nice, different.”

Abbie had made it work for the three of us. She’d spent all day in my mother’s kitchen cooking. My father was right next to her, helping, laughing, telling her stories I’d never heard. As much as I hated it, she was the perfect buffer between us. Just like my mother had been.

“Yes, it was nice,” I agreed.

His eyes zeroed in on my face. “What happened?”

I shrugged, unsure if he was addressing my face or Abbie. I chose to go with the latter. “Didn’t work out.”

“Something you did?”

I nodded sliding my hands into my pockets.

He smirked. “Some days it’s clear that you’re my son. I fucked up with your Mom and often.”

I furrowed my brows. His visit was shock enough, him getting personal was . . . never.

“So, do you need anything?”

His whole body tensed as he looked at me with contempt. “No, I guess not.” Anger radiated off him as he shook his head in a way that said he should have known better.

“I see you’re getting pissed, which is normal, but do you want to help me out here? I’m confused.”

“What confuses you?” He spoke up quickly. “I’m sixty-five years old. I have shit to look forward to. I’m here to check on my son.”

“Because you promised her you would,” I shot back.

“Because I miss my family,” he countered with just as much contempt before he fisted his hands at his sides and spoke low. “I miss her Cameron. And it’s not getting easier.”

“You aren’t happy here,” I admitted. “You’ve never been happy here. You resent me for being here. But it wasn’t my decision.”

“I’m not going to be happy anywhere,” he said gruffly. “It wasn’t just her decision, you know. We decided together to move closer to remain a part of your life.”

“Right,” I said dryly.

“I’m not leaving you, no matter how hard it is for us.”