Page 24 of Unmanageable

He was also the funniest guy I ever knew.

He was the king of the practical joke, the guy who would wear a ridiculous, itchy holiday sweater in July just to see the grocery clerk blink, or tell the restaurant waiter it was Mom’s birthday when it was actually November, just to get her a free scoop of ice cream and watch her turn bright pink.

He spent his whole life making sure none of us took ourselves too seriously, constantly embarrassing us with these huge, theatrical bits that always broke the ice, no matter how tense things got.

I took his whole routine because it kept people smiling, kept the air light. But now, seeing the quiet in these hallways, the clown routine feels less like a choice and more like a desperate strategy.

Maeve’s phone buzzes in her pocket, shattering the moment. She pulls it out, her face instantly tightening as she reads the screen.

“Look, Finn, I’ve got to get to the airport. Alex is losing his mind with the kids, and if I don’t get back to Virginia, he might actually sell the toddler on eBay.”

“I got it, Mae. Go. Save the kids from their father. I’m on deck.”

“There’s soup in the fridge,” she says, pausing at the door, her keys jangling in her hand. She stops, her eyes searching mine for a long second. “He’s really confused today, Finn. Just… brace yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mae. Go.”

I watch her leave, her car backing down the driveway, leaving me alone with the ghosts. I take a slow, steady breath, centering myself the way I do before a penalty shot, before heading down the hall.

My mother is sitting on the edge of the wicker love seat in the sunroom, her shoulders hunched, looking smaller than she ever has. She’s wearing a sweater dad bought her a decade ago, and it practically swallows her now.

My father is standing by the window.

His posture is still straight—the ghost of the man who used to run a construction crew, six feet of stubborn muscle—but his eyes are entirely vacant, searching the empty driveway for a car that hasn’t existed since the nineties.

“Finnian! There you are,” he barks. “Grab your bag. We’re late. Coach Miller doesn’t like it when you show up after the whistle.”

I don’t miss a beat. I lean against the doorframe, keeping my tone light, casual. It’s the easiest way to bridge the gap, the script Maeve and I have rehearsed a hundred times.

You don’t argue with the past; you just slide into it with him.

“Coach called, Pop. Rink’s flooded. Pipes burst. Total disaster. Tryouts are pushed back until… well, until further notice.”

He pauses, his brow furrowing into a deep, frustrated V.

He looks at me—really looks at me—and for a second, the six-foot-three pro athlete in front of him doesn’t quite fit the five-year-old he’s expecting. He blinks, the confusion turning into a sharp, painful flicker of fleeting awareness before it slides away again.

“Flooded? In this weather? That’s bush league. They should have the backup generator running. They pay taxes for that.”

“I know. Total amateur hour,” I say, walking over and sitting on the ottoman near his feet, keeping my movements slow so I don’t startle him. “Sit down for a sec. Tell me about that kid you liked. The one with the ‘hands like a surgeon.’”

He sits, his movements stiff, his large, calloused hands resting on his knees. The same hands that taught me how to hold a stick now tremble as he adjusts his trousers.

“Moore. Kid’s a natural. But he’s lazy, Finn. You gotta outwork him. If you give him an inch, he’ll take the blue line. You want that ice? You earn it.”

“He’s getting married in three days, Dad,” I say gently, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.

He lets out a rattling laugh, shaking his head. “He’s six years old. Who’s he marrying? A girl with pigtails from down the street? Don’t get distracted by girls, Finn.”

“She’s amazing,” I tell him, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips as I think of Ivy. “You’d like her. She’s tough. Reminds me a bit of Mom when she’s mad.”

***

Dinner is a masterclass in pretending everything is fine.

My mother talks about the garden, about the tomatoes that are coming in, but her eyes never leave Dad’s plate. She’s watching his hands, a quiet, heartbreaking vigilance, making sure he’s using the fork and not just staring at the chicken like it’s a foreign object he’s never seen before.

Every time he falters, she smoothly reaches over, cutting a piece for him while continuing her sentence without missing a beat.