Page 89 of The Overtime Persuasive

I fold my hands in my lap. “It’s Liam.”

He crosses his arms in front of him tightly and nods. “The hockey player.”

“Why yes,” I say sarcastically, “I believe that is his current profession. Unless the ‘H’ in NHL stands for handsome.”

Dad watches me over the rim of his cup. I could explain. I could tell him Liam has been helping at the store, that we’ve been spending time together, and that he has become someone I reach for before I realize I’m doing it.

Instead, I reach for my tea and meet his gaze.

“Speaking of tickets,” I go on, “my former tenant Les wanted two for himself and his son. Did your manager get that request?”

“Was that a redirect?” Dad continues looking at me. “That was smooth.”

This conversation is beginning to feel quite familiar, much like a similar one I had recently, with the hockey player in question, about deflection.

“I don’t know what you mean. But, Les and his son,” I repeat, “they’re huge fans.”

“Fine.” Dad winks. “We’ll come back to Liam.”

“No need, not when you have tickets to talk about. And they are much more interesting, especially because Les has been a fan of yours since you started playing.”

“Fine, I see how this is going to go.” He laughs and pulls his phone from inside his jacket. “What’s Les’s last name? Oh, and give me the info for his son, too.”

I find the message Les sent me and give Dad the full names. He types them into a text sending it off into the ether. Before he sets the phone back down on the table, it lights up signaling a response.

He reads it before he places it back down on the table. “Handled. Two tickets at will call. They’ll have passes to come backstage afterward.”

“Really? Les is going to lose his mind.”

“Tell him not to. Security hates paperwork.”

I laugh, reaching across the table to squeeze Dad’s hand. “Thank you.”

He squeezes back, his mouth opening. I half expect him to impart some words of wisdom but a woman approaches before he can answer.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” the older woman says, clutching her phone with both hands. Behind her, a younger version stands looking embarrassed on her behalf. “Mr. Barlow, I have loved your music since I was sixteen.”

“It’s James,” he says, smiling, pushing his coffee cup out of the way. “What’s your name?”

She tells him her name, and that one of his songs played during her first date with her husband. They used it at their wedding, and when her husband died three years ago, she played it at the service.

My father sits and listens to every word. He doesn’t glance toward me, his phone, or the people beginning to notice what’s happening. He gives Margaret his full attention, takes both of her hands, and tells her he’s honored that the song became part of their life together.

When she asks for a picture, he steps beside her. The younger woman, who we find out is her daughter, takes it, and then asks for one of her own.

By the time they leave, another couple is waiting. Dad signs a menu for their daughter. He then records a short video for someone’s birthday and poses for three more photographs. The restaurant staff hover nearby, ready to intervene, but he never asks them to.

This scene isn’t a new one for me. There were times when I was younger that I resented this part of being James William’s child. I wanted dinner without strangers. I wanted to walk through a hotel lobby without cameras. I wanted to have a father whose name didn’t belong to millions of other people. I wanted him to be mine, all mine.

But tonight, I see what they see. Not only James William, the singer who has spent decades filling arenas, but I see my dad. A man who knows that the songs he’s written belong to the people who carried them through their lives. A man who stops his own meal to make sure a stranger gets tickets because his daughter asked. The guy who really wants to help his baby girl, but is able to respect the fact that I said no.

When the last couple walks away, Dad sits and takes a drink of his now-cold coffee.

“Sorry about that.”

“You never have to apologize to me for being kind.” I smile and pick up my tea.

Sitting across from him tonight, I’m proud of the man my father became.