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When my phone lights up, another text comes from her, and I snatch it from the counter to read.
Angie: Ok I’ll see you tomorrow.
I might not know what she’s thinking, but that emoji lifts my spirits. It’s the first real sign of our connection again.
“Razzle, buddy,” I sing, looking over to him lying in a sunbeam on the rug, totally unfazed except for a flick of his tale. “Mama’s coming home tomorrow. Are you excited? You’re right. We should celebrate with tuna tartar tonight.”
Before I can unpack this news and what it means, there’s a knock at my door and I spring into action as Razzle does the same to hide.
“¡Hijo mío!” my dad bellows with a smile as large as his personality and dimples that match mine. José Juan Jimenez is a loud, jovial man with endless stories and giver of unsolicited advice. But I couldn’t care less if he does or doesn’t give it right now, because it’s been five damn years since I’ve seen him and I’m not wasting a moment. I mean shit, the last time I saw him was at my abuela’s ninetieth birthday in Mexico.
I laugh to myself when I notice we’re wearing damn near the same outfit—jeans and white T-shirt.
“Papá,” I grin and lean in for a long and tight hug. “I missed you. How was your trip?” I ask, then break away and pat him on the back. “Come in, tell me everything.”
“Well, airplane seats are getting smaller,” he says as I lead him to the kitchen island to have a seat on the stool. “And my knees are getting stiffer, but it’s all worth it for the game, right?”
Cracking open the longneck, I hand him his beer and start on opening my own. “I think those seats at the stadium are going to be even smaller,” I chuckle. “So what’s going on with you?”
“Ah, same old stuff. Working hard, playing hard,” he winks.
“Oh yeah? What’s playing these days?”
“Oh, you know, got a few different ladies in the mix,” he smirks, and my stomach goes a little sour.
My eyebrows flick up briefly. “I see. And do they know about each other?”
“Hell no,” he huffs. “Not my style. You know me.”
Do I? I think to myself. He looks the same, talks the same, carries himself the same, but after all these years I’m starting to wonder if I ever really knew my papá. I know what he presents to me.
“Are they long-term type or…” I trail off.
“Nah. I’m just having some fun, you know?”
I guess I do know. I’ve always known he’s a perpetual bachelor and he’s always made it seem cool. It made him seem suave to me. But for some reason I see him differently today. He’s still cheerful and outgoing; he looks to be living his best life, but suddenly, I think about how sad it is. Doesn’t he want someone special to go through life with? He has a group of guys he’s friends with down in Dallas, and I know he sees them regularly, so he’s not hurting for friendship—but doesn’t he want something more meaningful?
“You ever think about settling down again?” I ask, then take a swig of the hoppy carbonation and immediately realize I’m drinking alcohol and freeze.
“Now why would I want to do something stupid like that?” he laughs. Deciding to swallow my one sip, I then lean over the sink and empty the bottle. “Something wrong with your beer?”
“No,” I say. “I just forgot I’m not drinking out of solidarity with Ang.”
“Come on,” he scoffs. “One beer isn’t going to kill you.”
“I know,” I reply, then lean my forearms on the counter facing him. “So no marriage on your setting sun horizon?” I quip.
“Was that an old man joke?” he chuckles.
“It was,” I smile. “I think there’s a nursing home here called Setting Sun. Maybe I could get you a good deal by signing you up early.”
“You know, now that you say that,” he drawls, giving me an even stare and a smirk. “Maybe I should talk to my lawyer and make some adjustments to my will.”
As we catch-up for the next hour or so, everything he’s talking about is surface-level bullshit. I mean, I didn’t expect us to dig deep, but every time I try to ask something a little more meaningful, he sort of floats back to small talk or a funny anecdote about one of his buds or work. I’m his son… Shouldn’t we be able to talk about what’s going on in our lives and how we feel? When I tried to bring up Joaquín, he excused himself to the bathroom and when he came back, he had another meaningless story to tell me.
I know our time is coming to end and he needs to leave for the game soon, so when he ends another story about his friend, we both know it’s time for him to go.
“Whatever happened to Carlos, by the way?” I ask as we make our way to the front door. “Why did he have to sell his ticket?”
