The Resistance(104)

Holliday steps forward and puts out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

“Good to meet ya,” he says, shaking her hand. “The son of a bitch always could get the lookers.” He starts walking toward the SUV, stepping around me. “You better have brought the good stuff, Son.”

Signaling for her to come with us, I say to my father, “I brought your favorite.”

An hour later, my dad is the asshole he’s always been. Plain and simple. I’m now old enough to know he’s not changing for me or anyone else.

“Saw Patty O’Toole the other day,” he says, eyeing me, ignoring Holliday. “She’s got three kids now.” His head lulls, the alcohol starting to sink in. “Why’d you two break up again?” His eyes meet mine, then his gaze lands on Holliday. “Patty was a looker too… and Homecoming Queen.”

My mom smiles, trying to lessen the tension building on the back porch where we’re sitting, by saying, “Not as pretty as you, Holli. You and JD make a beautiful couple.”

“Well, I’m no Homecoming Queen,” she replies, “but I get by.”

“You more than get by,” I snap, pissed he has the nerve to say that to her. “Ignore him.”

“Ignore me?” he laughs.

Glaring, I remind him, “Isn’t it Patty Brouchard now?”

“Oh Holli,” my mother interrupts. I’m thinking on purpose. “My son was so handsome standing center field in his tuxedo with that crown on his head. I should show you the pictures. And I still want you to tell me about the wedding.” She glances over at me and I can see the hurt in her eyes.

Holliday smiles. “I’d love that.” Nudging me, she says, “I didn’t know you were Homecoming King?”

Bumping my shoe against hers, I say, “I can’t seem to shake the title, no matter how hard I try. The press loves shit like that.”

“JD,” Mom admonishes.

“Sorry.” I laugh, enjoying that some things never change.

Mom starts for the door, and says, “Come inside, Holli. Let’s give the boys some time to talk. I’ll show you some embarrassing photos of my son.”

I can already tell Holliday’s going to be using this against me later when we’re alone. But I love that she’s smiling too much to argue. She says, “I can’t wait to see those.” As soon as the door closes, I turn and face out over the porch railing, putting my back to my dad. I feel the confrontation between us brewing.

And then it bubbles over. Sitting in his rocking chair, he says, “You could have had a good life here. Patty has a good life. She’s settled. Her husband is the high school baseball coach. Her oldest plays little leag—”

“And?” I turn to face him. “What the fuck does it matter what Patty or Ricky are doing?”

“That could’ve been you,” he says, pointing a finger. “You had so much potential. You could have pushed through the pain. You chose to wuss out, to cry on your mother’s apron like that would make it better. Locking yourself in that room all day, listening to that damn rock music.”

“You should have come to the doctor’s appointment. You know,” I say, standing upright. “The one you chose to not show up for. I was never gonna play again, not like I did. Not college ball or pro ball.”

“See? You admit it. You could have played. You could have worked hard to get back to the shape you were in.”

When I was a kid, he was my hero. Today, he stands before me a bitter shell of the man I once admired, but I’m too pissed to feel sorry for him. “You just don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you not realize who I am?”

“I realize who you aren’t.”

He always did know how to hit where it hurts most. I don’t even know why I care anymore, so I stop trying to please him, and fight back. “I’m a fucking rock star.” Raising my voice, I say, “I have millions of fans and more money than I can spend in two lifetimes. I own three homes and have the most beautiful fucking wife in the world. If I want, I never have to work another day in my life—”

“That might be wise since the news said your friend had all the talent.”

My arm flies back, ready to deck him. But he stands to his full height and warns, “If you throw that punch, you better knock me out, Son. Cuz if you don’t, you’re not gonna wake up in the hospital the same man.”

“Dalton?” Holliday calls from the doorway. She comes closer, the creak of the door drawing my gaze to her. She touches my arm, and whispers, “You don’t need to do this. You don’t have anything to prove.”