Page 113 of The Men of Summer Collection

I haven’t heard from my father in a few weeks and I’ve only seen him once since I returned to San Francisco two months ago. We grabbed a bite at his favorite diner and talked about the towing business for the entirety of a strangely drama-free meal. Grant was out of town, so he hasn’t met my father yet.

I leave the bedroom, shutting the door quietly as I go so Grant can keep sleeping.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Declan! How the hell are you? But more importantly, how the hell is your boyfriend?”

“He’s doing fine,” I say, padding down the steps to the first floor.

“That was a helluva beaning,” my dad says.

“It sure was.”

“I saw the replays on the news. Messaged you this morning,” he says. “Hadn’t heard back, though, so I was worried.”

“I was busy taking care of Grant, so I couldn’t reply right away.” I am not taking the bait of his veiled guilt trip.

“That’s nice. Always good to have someone to look out for you. Just don’t forget your old man,” he says, a little joking, a lot not.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, walking into the kitchen to pour a glass of iced tea—a reminder of how different I am than the man who raised me.

“That was it. Just wanted to check in on your boyfriend. But I also wanted to let you know I took what you said to heart last time we talked.”

My brow knits as I lift the glass. “When I saw you for breakfast in June?”

“No. I meant when you said you weren’t going to loan me money,” he says.

I remember the call perfectly, including my words to him.

If you’re going to ask me for money to pay off a loan, a gambling debt, or to save your business, the answer is no. If you’re going to ask me to pay for you to go to rehab, the answer is yes.

“Sure,” I say tentatively, taking a drink.

“And the good news is that’s why you haven’t seen me much.”

Could he speak any more in code? “Because you’re in rehab?” I ask, with so much hope it’s embarrassing.

Dad chuckles. “No. I’m in AA. Like I told you. And dating Tricia. She’s helping me get my act together.” Tricia is a newcomer to the sobriety program. My dad’s been seeing her despite the fact that dating someone else in the program is a no-no. “And I’ve been working my ass off to repay my own loans. So there!”

He says it a little like a dig but also like he’s proud of himself. I choose to focus on the latter. “Good to hear.”

“And I wanted you to know that your tough talk inspired me. I’m not going to ask you for a loan again.”

“That’s great,” I say, but I’ll believe that when it happens. Plus, there are bigger fish to fry. “But are you going to go to rehab?”

“Nah. I don’t need it.”

I sigh at the overconfident dismissal. “Is that so?”

“It is. I’ve been sober for a while now,” he adds.

“How long?”

“A while,” he repeats, underlining the words.

That’s answer enough. He won’t tell me. Therefore, he’s slipped again. “Well, keep up the good work,” I say. This isn’t my circus, these aren’t my monkeys.

“But that’s not why I’m calling,” he says.

I brace myself for some brand-new request. For the latest uncomfortable ask. “All right. Why are you calling?”

“Tricia and I would love to take you and Grant out to dinner.”

My insides curl up in a ball and cringe. I’d rather have needles poked in my eyes. Yet I know this is better than a lot of alternatives. Dinner is not a loan. Dinner is not a drunken appearance at a game. Dinner is simply... a meal.

But dinner usually comes with liquor. “How about breakfast instead?”

“Sure,” he says. We set a date and I tell him I’ll check with Grant.

We hang up, and I feel like I made it out of a cage match unscathed. But I’m unsure if I can pull it off again next time.

Two weeks later, Grant and I set out on a Friday morning to have breakfast with my father. My nerves are strung tight. Grant must sense it, since he rubs my shoulder as we walk along California Street.

“You’ve got this, Deck,” he says.

“I hope so.”

“I know so,” Grant says, then smacks a kiss on my stubbled cheek.

He lets go of my shoulder and reaches for my hand. I take it, clasping our fingers together, and we cross Fillmore like that.

When we arrive at the diner, I look around for my father and a woman, but spot my dad all alone at a table.

“Tricia couldn’t make it. Late night,” my dad says with a shrug as he stands.

Grant extends a hand. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Jon.”

We sit, order awkwardly, then Grant slides in with a great opening line: “So, you were a hitting champ in the minors, Jon. Tell me your favorite memories of Triple-A.”

That’s genius. We spend the next forty-five minutes reminiscing on the one thing the three of us have in common—the greatest sport ever.

It’s almost enough to fool me into thinking my dad is better.