He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I park and walk to the door.
Shit. He knows. He knows something.
Nate.
The gambling.
Electric bill cut-off notice.
He clasps his hands, brings them under his chin, and says nothing.
Shit. What is it?
It’s the D in Spanish.
Quitting the squad.
It’s the injury. He knows I’ve faked an injury.
The date?
Me drinking?
I smile the “I’m-confused” smile and say, “Hello?”
“Hi honey.”
Something is so off.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t move. He just sits for a while.
It’s the gambling. He knows.
It has to be the gambling.
He takes a deep breath and extends his legs.
“Honey.” He pauses. I’m busted. It’s a for sure, definite bust. He crosses his legs at the ankles and leans back onto his elbows. “I don’t want you to worry, but I quit my job last night. Things may start to get a little tight.”
I’m relieved, mad, and shocked all at once.
“Dad? You quit your job? What!”
He can’t look at me.
“I just can’t do it anymore. It’s the same ol’ thing day-in and day-out, and I’m just ready for a change. Things will look up and get better for us eventually, I promise. But I was thinking if I sell your car and some things around the house it will get us through a month or two, and by then I’ll have an even better job making more money. You can use my pick-up to get to school, and I’ll job hunt in the evenings and on the weekends.” Tears fill my eyes so I turn away where he can’t see me.
“We’ll be okay, Dad. We’ll make it work somehow,” I say as I walk through the door.