Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
She sets a hand on my shoulder. “You can do it.”
She’s right. I can. We talked about the things I need to say to him this morning while we were baking.
It’s time. When she leaves the kitchen, I pop in my AirPods, grab a sponge, and gear up. Like when I’m about to hit the ice, I zone in on three things right now—focus, determination, and grit.
I call my dad, and he answers right away. “Hey, son. Good to hear from you. Merry Christmas Eve,” he says.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you too,” I say, and we make small talk about the holiday for a minute but after that I square my shoulders. “Listen…” I begin.
“Okay,” he says with a touch of nerves in his voice.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. My whole life. Getting me tutors and tools for dyslexia, and making sure I could handle my homework and get decent enough grades. And getting me to hockey practice, buying me equipment, and getting me the best coaches. I am beyond grateful.”
“Good. You deserve all that. I’m hearing a but.”
I draw a deep breath. “I’m canceling the meal plan, and the performance coach too. Domingo’s a good guy, but I don’t need him.”
Dad’s quiet for a long beat. That’s rare. Then, he says with genuine curiosity, “Why? They’re so good for you.”
I wipe down more of the sugar on the counter to stay busy. “I eat balanced already. I just don’t want to be obsessed with calories. Sometimes I eat cookies. Like, right now. I made Christmas cookies with my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend? So you are with her?” It comes out a little like I knew it, but fact is, he did know it.
“Yep. And she’s not a distraction. She’s incredible. She’s supportive and kind and funny, and she’s taught me to have fun,” I say, then I smile. Can’t help it. Josie makes me feel that way—lighter, easier, more carefree. “Do you know what that’s like? When you meet someone who makes you smile and laugh? It’s better than shooting the winning goal.”
He scoffs lightly. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy but—”
“You’re a good dad. But you’re too involved as an agent. I’m not firing you, but I am telling you I need you to back off. The way you’re over-involved is honestly a distraction. Just be my dad, and be my agent, but don’t make me your project anymore, okay?”
He sighs. “I only want the best for you, son.”
“And you’ve given me the best.”
He sighs again, this time more heavily, but perhaps it’s directed at himself. “I’ve overstepped,” he says, plainly.
“You have. But it’s nothing we can’t fix. We can…start over.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He pauses, and I know this isn’t easy for him. Hell, it’s not easy for me. But it is necessary. His voice is tinged with some regret when he says, “I’ve really only ever wanted the best for you. But I hear you. I’ve been pushy. And I’ll try to back down.”
“You can do it,” I say encouragingly, like he’d say to me.
“You’re right. I can do it.” He hesitates, but only to shift gears. “Will you come to Christmas dinner?”
We’re going to her brother’s house earlier in the day, but dinner should work, so I say, “Yes, and I’m bringing my girlfriend. Tell Frieda she’s the woman in the T-shirt, and she’d better be nicer to her than she was the night she met her.”
I say goodbye and finish cleaning, feeling a whole lot lighter.
Christian chews approvingly on a peanut butter blossom. “These are even better than those cinnamon things you guys made the other month,” he says, relaxing on his couch, the wreckage of Christmas morning gifts for two-and-half-month old twins scattered on the floor in front of the ten-foot-tall Douglas fir.
As the baby in his arms mouths on some pacifier shaped like a bear, Christian stuffs another cookie in his mouth. The fact that he eats sweets with no obvious guilt is another thing I admire about him.
I reach for one from the red-and-white-striped cookie tin and pop it in my mouth. Yup, it tastes like zero guilt.
When I finish it, I say, “You know what? You’re right. We can bake.”
“We’re exceptionally good at following recipes,” Josie says, from her spot next to me. Her parents are here too.
Christian nods toward his sister. “Are these Greta’s recipes? I remember this one Christmas when the two of you made seven-layer brownies, and they were the best.”
Josie beams. “Those were really good. Wes, we’ll have to make those next.”
“We will,” I say.
Christian leans back on the couch, shifts the baby to his other arm. The last time Christian brought up baking, he could barely remember his sister liked to putter around in the kitchen. Now, he’s remembering details and sharing them. It’s a welcome shift.