It’s funny that she can roll her Rs in Spanish but can’t quite pronounce them in English. I grab my kid in a gentle headlock and scruff her hair. “She just ate, but she’s already hungry.” Hazel rolls off the couch, and I reach over so she doesn’t bang into the coffee table. Jesus, this child is gonna shave a decade off my life.
My dad gives us a tired smile. “Reminds me of someone I know.”
“Nothing’s changed,” I joke. When he doesn’t say anything, I prod a little. “How’s work?”
“Lo mismo.” The same.
“Did they give you a raise for all that overtime?”
He shakes his head. “Those tightwads turned me down again.”
My dad’s a bricklayer. José Silva slaves in hundred-degree Texas heat, six days a week. He crafts gorgeous fireplaces on million-dollar mansions while he lives in a hovel. His hands are cracked and weathered, his skin the color of sunbaked leather, and he looks twenty years older than other men his age.
“Why don’t you try getting a job with a different company?” It’s a question I’ve asked a million times.
“Don’t wanna screw up my retirement.”
The problem with my father is he’s too loyal, and his boss takes advantage of his back-breaking work ethic. “Dad, you’re so good at what you do. Have you tried to get customers directly?”
He runs his dirty hand over his face. “You know I’m not good with people like you are.”
It kills me that he thinks so little of himself. In the right conditions, my father is charming, but he clams up when he has to sell his skills.
What’s scary is that, in my own way, I’m a bricklayer just like him. I’m only good at football, and if I don’t get drafted, what else will I do?
“Please make sure you take water breaks. Don’t land yourself in the hospital again.”
He holds up a weathered Gatorade squirt bottle. “I have to piss every ten minutes when I drink that much, but you’re right.”
My father almost worked himself to death last year. He got so dehydrated on the job, he passed out and ended up in the ER. Now he’s having a hard time handling those medical bills. “Cuídate, papá.” Take care of yourself.
I used to resent how much he worked because that meant he never came to my games when all the other parents were in the stands, but when I had Hazel, it finally sank in. He needed the money to pay the bills and feed and clothe me. No one else was gonna do it.
Worried, I rub the back of my neck. “I still have some insurance money if you need—”
“No. I told you, I’m not taking Gemma’s money. That belongs to you and Hazel. You’re gonna need it for the extra year at school.”
“I’m graduating this winter.”
“But the draft isn’t until April. Be smart.”
“I can get a job second semester ’cause I won’t have classes.”
He shakes his head. “What if the baby gets sick? What if you have an emergency? No.”
Those are good points, but I hate that I can’t help him yet. “Fine, but when I get drafted, I’m paying off your mortgage and making you retire, old man.” His hoarse chuckle makes me smile.
Now I just need to have the best season of football of my college career.
No pressure.
2
ABIGAIL
After Paige and I drag in the last box, we collapse on her couch the football guys were nice enough to move for us.
Nick was noticeably absent in that effort. Whatever. He can go suck a lemon.
