I pause on the step with my late night cereal snack. He’s cast in the orange glow of the lamp, files spread across his blotter as his reading glasses droop down his nose.
There’s a framed signed jersey from the Broncos behind him—a gift from one of his firm’s clients.
“I found flights for two weeks from now.” Dad looks up over the rim of his glasses. His tie is abandoned on his briefcase, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. “We can go for a long weekend to Seattle. The Huskies have a game on Monday we can go see. Sound good?”
“Oh, uh.” I scratch the back of my head and shrug, hovering in the doorway. “I guess.”
Avoidance is going well for me. Now I’m out of rope. I have to make a choice soon.
My sketchbook sits open on my desk in my room, a half-finished concept in progress.
Dad sits up, removing his glasses. He motions me in with two fingers.
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s nothing, Dad.”
“Then where’s your enthusiasm? Is it because you heard the Utes scouts would be at your next game?”
I blow out a breath. I didn’t know that. Coach keeps us in the dark about that. He figures if we know about scouts, it’ll shake our nerves and throw us off our groove. In his mind, we should play every game like we could impress a scout.
Dad gives me a sage nod, like my sigh confirms it. “I can check the available flights for Utah instead. You don’t have to go to my alma mater just because I’m a fan of their team.”
“Dad…”
He doesn’t hear my weak protest, wiggling the wireless mouse to wake up the monitor. He slips his glasses back on and does that old person with technology face—a slight squint, head tipped back, lips parted and silently repeating the words on the screen.
I grip the cereal bowl
harder. It’s probably soggy now, ruining my late night treat. If you don’t start eating cereal within the first few minutes after pouring the bowl, it turns into a mediocre, milk-soaked mess.
“Here!” Dad taps the screen enthusiastically. “Thursday night flight. We’ll tour the campus on Friday.”
I take a seat across from Dad, careful to nudge his files aside before I put my bowl down.
Once he was mad at me for a whole week when I was ten and spilled Gatorade on a motion of dismissal that cost him a client. I don’t know if it’s true that my accident lost him the case and made his client fire him, or if the DA simply had a stronger case, but from then on I’ve been cautious around his office. Even at eighteen, that habit lingers.
“Dad.”
This time I gain his attention. I take a breath and leap.
“You’re always telling me to follow my dreams.”
“That’s right.” Dad smiles. “I want you to be proud of chasing down what you want.”
Tugging on my earlobe, I go on. My insides ripple like a boat ignoring the no wake signs, disturbing the water with choppy waves.
“The thing is, Dad…” I swallow to wet my dry throat. “You encourage me to do that, but football isn’t my dream.”
There. I said it, plain as day. No take backs.
I drop my eyes and stare hard at the woodgrain of his desk. I hate that I can’t look at him. It’s like I’m barely brave enough to be honest about what I want. My heart feels like it’ll rocket out of my chest. This is the first time I’ve voiced this aloud.
The application for Oak Ridge College has been filled in, hiding away in my desk drawer for months now.
Dad folds his fingers on the desk. “Go on.”
My palms are clammy. I wipe them on my sweatpants. This is so much more difficult than I pictured when I went over how this conversation should go.