Goddamn. I should have never come into his office today.
“Hey, don’t look at me.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “If you want to have that conversation, you talk to your girl about the rules she made regarding sex.”
Monty grimaces.
“Jesus. I can’t believe I just said sex in front of you.”
“Yeah, let’s never do that again, especially in reference to my daughter.” He sits back in his chair. “Even if you two are too blind to see it or are too stubborn to admit it, I know what this is.”
“She’s leaving.” My two least favorite words that tend to fall from my lips whenever I’m looking for an explanation.
“She is,” Monty agrees. “Are you going to be okay when that happens?”
I look right at him across the desk and lie. “I’ll figure out a way to be.”
His smile is full of pity. I’m now getting pity from the man whose daughter I’m sleeping with. Fucking great.
“You remember our conversation, right?”
He’s referring to the time he requested I speak to him if I ever felt the urge to ask Miller to stay, to leave her dreams behind and settle into life with me and my son.
The urge is there every single day, but I won’t ask that of her. It’s not what she wants, and I don’t have the strength to hear her rejection.
Miller doesn’t allow me to show her how I really feel about her, so the best I can do is tell her through my actions. Support her dreams, help her chase everything she wants. I’ll continue to do just that as much as it’ll kill me in the end because unfortunately, I’m well aware that a simple life with me and my son would never be enough for her.
“I remember,” I say. “But that’s not what this is for her. She has so many opportunities waiting for her when she gets back to work.”
Monty gives me an understanding nod. “What time should I be over tonight? Make sure it’s early enough that Max is still awake. I want to see my little guy.”
“Six?”
“I’ll be there.”
Once again, I stand to leave, but my eyes are drawn to the picture sitting on Monty’s desk. Miller in her bright yellow softball uniform, kneeling with a pitcher’s glove on her knee.
“How many of those do you have?” I gesture to the frame. I know he has one at home, this one at his Chicago office, and one he keeps in his travel bag for road games. I think he might even have one in his wallet.
“I don’t know. Three or four.”
“Why?”
“Why do you have a photo of Max in your hat?”
Touché.
“To remind me of what’s important when the stress from work or life starts to become too much.”
“Exactly.”
Without hesitation or asking for permission, I take the frame off his desk and unclip the back. The photo is small, maybe only two or three inches in height and fits perfectly next to the one of Max in my hat.
Monty stays silent as I put the empty frame back on his desk.
“Shut up.”
He laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”
I tuck the photo of Miller under the band, close to the one of Max, running my thumb over both of the edges. “How old was she here?”
“Thirteen maybe?”
“She looks happy.”
“She was. She was a really happy kid, much in the way yours is.”
Monty slides in the gentle reminder that I’m doing okay. It’s his way of reassuring me that Max is all right. That I’m doing a good job, just like he did. But I’m only doing a good job right now because of the girl in the photo next to my son’s.
I put my hat back on and leave his office.
My hands are full of groceries by the time I make it home. The house is empty and quiet, so after I set the shopping bags on the kitchen island, I make my way to the backyard in search of Max and Miller.
My son’s laughter echoes off the glass of the back slider, and I open it to find him in nothing but a diaper at his water table, splashing and clapping for himself when he dumps water from one small bucket into another slightly larger one. Miller sits on the ground and claps with him, cheering him on as he drenches himself in water, perfect for a hot August day.
When she catches my eye as I stand on the back porch, she offers me a small wave. Max follows her hand and, with a beaming smile on his face, takes off in my direction, arms up above his head as he races towards me.
“There’s my boy.”
“Dadda,” he squeals.