Tonight, I just need to make it to the ballpark, so I shoot the breeze with TJ for a few more stops then bound off the bus when the stadium comes into view.
My dad’s waiting outside the gates—he’s taking Jason and me to a Cougars baseball game tonight. He grabs beers for us, then guides us to the seats he snagged at the first-base line.
Dad only sits in the best seats.
Drinks the best beer.
Has the best kids.
Jason points to the field. “I’ll be with you guys in a minute. I need to say hi to Grant.”
“Show-off,” I tease.
My brother just shrugs and smiles as he makes his way to the edge of the stands to chat with the team’s starting catcher, one pro-baller to another.
Once I sit, my dad parks a hand on my shoulder. “Shall I call you King of the Home Page, son?”
It’s a compliment of sorts, but I don’t like talking work with him. “Sure, Dad. That won’t be weird at all,” I say drily.
“You’re getting there. But you know my offer stands,” he says, lifting his beer and taking a long pull.
This is why I don’t like talking work—because he’ll make me an offer once again.
“I know, and I appreciate it. But hey, do you think the Cougars will extend their winning streak tonight?” I ask.
I know what’s next. The fatherly pat. The serious look. The worry in his eyes. I try to avoid it, but I can’t.
“I mean it, son. Do you need any help? I’ve got franchises opening in Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Pier 39, Sausalito . . . You can take your pick of Mister Cookies.”
My father built a cookie business from scratch years ago. The shop franchises put my brother and me through college. It funded our lives. He’s the classic self-made man, doing it all, taking care of his kids.
“No, I’m fine. Things are taking off,” I say, knocking back some more beer as I check out the animated race cars on the jumbotron. Jason is still chatting with the catcher.
“That’s fantastic,” my dad says. “It’s amazing how quickly you guys have risen to the top.” Unspoken, but there, is the implication that we could fall just as quickly, and that when we do, he’ll be waiting.
A weight sinks in my gut. Cookies are awesome, but I don’t want to run a cookie franchise. I don’t want shit handed to me.
My brother didn’t have anything handed to him.
My dad didn’t either.
“Or you could just crash on Jason’s couch forever,” Dad says with a wink.
I tense as my little brother bounds up the aisle, taking the steps in twos.
“Did Jason say something to you? Like he doesn’t want me there?” I ask Dad quietly.
But my brother has eagle eyes and ears. “Yeah, I said, ‘Please get rid of my personal chef. It’s so hard when he’s there.’” Jason drops in the seat next to me and gives me a noogie. “Dude, you are welcome, like, forever.”
Ah, fuck. I love this guy so damn much. Emerson is right. Jason has never once given me a hard time about his paying for cooking school and then my not being a chef.
And yet, I don’t want to be his personal chef any more than I want to be a cookie man. I need to get my own place again. Something that’s just mine. I need my own career—one I launched with hard work and no handouts.
I picture the latest letters from the bank for that dumbass IOU, the due soon notice stamped on the statements. Jason would pay it in a heartbeat, but I won’t ask him.
Nope. No fucking way.
It’s up to me. I have to pay off this last debt on my own, and I have to make this show with Emerson a success. There are no other options.
If I sleep with her again, I’ll fuck up this chance.
11
Don’t You Dare Cry
Emerson
* * *
When my father crosses the finish line on his bike on Saturday morning, my mom cheers, her arms high in the air. “Woohoo, William!”
“Such a fangirl,” I tease.
“Of course I am,” she says.
Dad blows her a kiss, then stops, unclips his shoes, and gets off his road bike. Wheeling it beside him, he closes the distance and hugs her. He’s sweaty and clearly tired from the race through Marin County to Sausalito, but still pumped.
“Raised five thousand dollars,” he says, emotion in his voice.
“I’m proud of you, Dad,” I say, smiling from deep within my soul.
He tugs at his shirt, emblazoned with the primary charity behind the bike race—a hospital where Callie was treated for her heart condition. They took good care of her, especially at the end. They took care of me too, when they tested me for it. But Callie was the unlucky twin—the one with a congenital heart defect that ended her life at twenty-eight years. I was fit as a fiddle, able to ride roller coasters, run, swim, hike, and play.