That question makes him open his eyes. “No. Why would you ask that?”
I search his face for his normal signs of drunkenness, but his eyes are clear, his balance is steady, and the only thing I can smell is…Old Spice?
“I don’t know. You haven’t been outside in months. To be honest, I thought maybe you were drunk.”
He blinks at me, and then craziest thing happens. He smiles. A genuine smile—not one born out of hatred, promising retribution. It isn’t evil or vindictive. It’s a true, heartfelt smile. I can’t remember the last time I saw my father’s smile, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, I find myself smiling along with him.
“Nope. Not drunk,” he says, closing his eyes and tilting his face back toward the sun.
I watch him for several moments, but he offers nothing more until I step around him and open the front door.
“Today was the first day I woke up and didn’t immediately think about alcohol or go searching for a bottle of whiskey. Today is the first day in years that I’ve felt alive.”
His words stop me in my tracks.
“The sun was shining through the window. It looked nice out, and I tried to remember what it felt like to be warmed by the sun instead of alcohol, and for the life of me, I couldn’t.” Dad sighs and lowers his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t remember.”
I should walk away—turn my back, go into his house, and do what I came here to do. Instead I ask, “Like what?”
“Lots of things.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, so I step into the house. I shut the door softly between us and nearly trip over my feet when I see the state of the living room. Boxes are piled up on the end table. Pictures and photo albums are strewn out across the floor, and the TV is paused on what looks like an old video of one of my first bull rides with the PBR.
Throat thick with emotion, I grab the remote and un-pause the TV.
“Look at him ride. That boy is talented,” the announcer says as the bull whips and turns, trying to fling me off his back. The buzzer sounds, marking my first eight-second ride with the PBR, and when I dismount, he lets out a low whistle. “Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, Lincoln Bennett is the next big thing.”
The recording ends, and the TV turns to black and white static before flicking off, and that’s when I realize Dad is standing behind me. I didn’t even hear him come in.
“What is this?” I ask, motioning toward the TV.
Dad never showed an ounce of interest in my bull-riding career. He never asked about it, never talked about it, never congratulated me on a good ride, and he sure as hell didn’t show any empathy when my career tanked. What the hell is he doing with a video of my first televised ride?
He rolls his eyes and huffs, the easygoing man from a couple of seconds ago long gone. “It’s a recording.”
“Well, no shit, but what are you doing with it?”
“It’s mine. I recorded it.” He plops down on the couch and picks up a picture.
I shake my head. “Why?”
“Because I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be happy. The last time I remember being happy was when I sat and watched you on TV that night.”
His words nearly knock me on the ground. “You probably couldn’t remember because you went to the bar afterwards and got wasted. I should’ve been celebrating that night. Instead, I had to come bail you out of jail for popping Billy Sargenta in the nose.”
“Yeah, well, that’s your own fault. You should’ve left me in that cell. I would’ve been fine until morning.”
He’s right. I should’ve left him there. That’s what he deserved. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve been working really hard to put that shit in my past and look forward.
“Do you remember this day?” he asks, holding up a picture of me and Chloe.
We’re standing by the lake with our arms around each other. That day will be forever engrained in my head. But not because it was the day Chloe caught her first fish—because of what happened afterward. The good memories are always overshadowed by the bad ones.
“Vaguely,” I lie.
Picking up a few of the albums, I move them out of the way so I can walk through the living room.
“I don’t remember it either,” he mumbles. “But look at Chloe’s smile. That’s another thing I couldn’t remember—her smile.”