I already had one foot out the car door. “You got that right.”
Red moved quickly for a man so large. I bet it was a huge advantage in a fight.
We walked up to the front desk together and greeted the middle-aged woman sitting there. The air smelled musty and somehow sweet at the same time, like mothballs and cinnamon.
“Jonathan Smithson here to see David Smithson,” Red said evenly.
The lady at the reception —Beatrice, according to her name tag— stood with a smile. “Ah, you’re the son, right? Please come with me.”
Curiosity burned just beneath the surface of my skin.
“Is everything alright?” I asked, concerned. “I didn’t realize this was an emergency. I really can wait in the car if you need me to.”
Red shook his head, gently brushing the outer edge of my wrist with his fingers as he stepped forward. “No, I’d like you to meet him.”
“Really?”
Beatrice led us to a private room at the very end of the hall. It was cozy inside, large enough for a bed, a small desk, a small sink, and a toilet complete with safety grip bars tucked away in the corner. Seated in a wheelchair by the window was a man in his late sixties, staring up at the grey rain clouds with misty eyes.
“Hey, Pops,” Red called out. “They’re telling me you’re refusing to take your medicine.”
Red’s father turned, smiling in surprise. It was obvious then how much Red took after his father. They had the same eyes and nose, the same broad shoulders and square jaw.
“My boy! They keep trying to shove those damn pills down my throat. I won’t have it, I tell you.”
Beatrice sighed from the door. “Nobody’s shoving anything down your throat, Mr. Smithson.”
“Don’t listen to her, Johnny. She’s trying to poison me.”
Red approached slowly, kneeling next to his father’s wheelchair. “She’s not trying to poison you, Pops.”
“She is!”
“These are vitamins,” Red continued. “You know they are. They help you keep strong.”
I was a fly on the wall. Watching, observing. A part of me felt bad about being here, like I was being intrusive.
I rubbed my wrist where Red touched me. He said it was fine to be here, so I took him at his word.
“Oh, hello,” Mr. Smithson said, finally having noticed me. “And who might you be, dear?”
“Pops, this is Julia.”
His father chuckled. “It’s about damn time you introduced me to a girlfriend. I was seriously starting to worry you’d die alone.”
Girlfriend. The word echoed around inside my skull. Would the term apply to our little situation? If I was their girlfriend, did that mean I had three different boyfriends? If people asked, was I supposed to address them as such? How open would we be about this? Would the guys prefer to show me off, loud and proud? Or was this a sort of hush-hush, only in the privacy of our own four walls sort of thing?
I must have taken a moment too long to come up with a response because Red returned his attention to his father. “You’re making her uncomfortable, Pops. She’s just a friend.”
Just a friend. That somehow sounded a million times worse.
“I’m a journalist,” I introduced myself. “I’m here writing about your son’s journey to becoming a UFC champion. Hopefully, I mean. I have no doubt that he’ll make it.”
Mr. Smithson’s mouth dropped open. “You’re finally going? I’m so proud of you, my boy!” There were happy tears in his weary old eyes. “Oh, if only your mother could see you now. Taking after your old man, eh?”
“Were you a UFC fighter, too?” I asked.
Red’s father nodded. “Tried to be. My weary old bones had other plans. Luckily my dear boy wanted to take up the mantle.”