Page 29 of Five Things I See in You

“It is what it is, Noa.”

“And how are you? Seriously, Dad.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes flick toward the bar.

“Dad.”

“Eat before it gets cold,” he says, pointing his fork at my plate.

He pushes his empty plate aside, and I give up trying to have a normal conversation. I should have known how this would go.

“I saw you leaving the stadium with someone on Saturday,” he says suddenly.

He stares at me. He doesn’t ask who it was, because he knows perfectly well. He’s even spoken to her. I keep eating and say nothing.

“Against a back five, you don’t stay out wide longer than you need to anymore,” he finally says. “But you still hold on to the ball too long when a teammate overlaps. You waste several opportunities every game. Nobody here tells you because they don’t demand enough of you.”

For a moment, I think he’s paid me a compliment, and I almost choke on my water. Then comes the “but.” I should have expected it. Still, he’s acknowledged anything I’ve done well so few times in my life that my first thought is how, at twenty-six, his comments still hurt as much as they did when I was a little girl.

For a second, I’m tempted to ask if he realizes I’m one of the best players in the league. This league or my old one. I stop myself before giving him the satisfaction of an argument.

He rests his knife on the edge of the plate, blade facing inward, and waits. He’s done that for as long as I can remember: stares at me until I try to justify a play, then tears my explanation apart and leaves me on the verge of tears. Today, I’m not giving him that. Today, I’m giving him something else, because I’ve spent two sessions rehearsing what to say with Amara. I’m not stupid enough to think I’m no longer scared, but I think saying it will help.

I take a breath and wipe my hands on my pants.

“Dad, I’m not going to argue about whether the way you treated me and my brother was psychological abuse,” I blurt out, barely pausing for breath. “What’s done is done. We can’t undo it.”

My voice cracks toward the end, and I take two gulps of water, wishing it were whiskey. My fingers tremble around the glass. I set it down quickly, hoping he won’t notice.

He waits. At the next table, someone asks for the check. I swallow and try to find the strength to keep going.

“I’m telling you what I need,” I continue. “I need you to go home. And if you’re going to send me a message, I need it to be something positive, or something a dad would say. I don’t know. ‘I miss you,’ maybe. It can’t be that difficult, even for you.”

“Very nice. I see that psychologist you’re sleeping with is a wonderful influence.”

He certainly knows how to hurt me. I’ll give him that.

I clench my fist under the table. My pulse races, but I need to finish this.

“I have a coach. She’s the one who decides whether I need to change anything about my game. Not you. You never had that right. You just assumed you did because you’re my father.”

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me with contempt. I keep eating until I’ve finished, because I’m not leaving hungry because of him.

“You’d have gotten nowhere without my advice,” he growls just as I’m about to order dessert.

Then he gets up and leaves me sitting there.

I order dessert anyway. Lemon cake. I eat it slowly, savoring every bite, occasionally glancing at the empty chair across from me.

“Was everything all right with the food?” the waiter asks as he clears my father’s plate.

“Yes. He was in a hurry and had to leave,” I say, covering for him.

***

That afternoon, I watch several games at double speed, then call Hades.

“My father noticed something in my game,” I say before she can ask what I need. “I’d like to know if he’s right.”