I take out my phone to check in with my dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“Hey there, son,” he says, his words warm, his tone less so.
“You heading to church?”
“We are. Linda’s finishing getting ready. What about you?”
“Working today,” I answer reluctantly. Work isn’t a good subject with Dad. “Did that storm hit you guys last night?”
“Hugged the coast. We didn’t get more than a couple of inches of rain. Upstate got some sleet. Winter’s coming.”
“Yeah, it is. What’ve you guys got planned for the day?”
“Meeting some friends for lunch. I might catch some of the game.”
“Who’s playing?”
“The Giants. Can’t remember who they’re playing though. Seahawks, maybe. You got any news?”
“No.”
“But you’re working on a Sunday—still in DC?”
“Yep. For now.”
“Putting in the time, but what kind of advancement is possible?” Same conversation, different week. In Dad’s world, if you’re not building toward something the world measures—you’re wasting your time. After all, he started as a lowly mechanic and became a franchise king.
I hold in the sigh—he’ll hear it and it will spark an argument. “That’s not what this is about.”
“What kind of work are you doing?”
“That’s not for me to share.”
“Linda saw Sarah Watkins at the market. Her son’s a captain now.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I don’t offer one.
“You think you’ll be home next weekend?”
Doubtful. “Not sure.”
“If you are, plan on joining us for church. We can catch the games after.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Alright, son. I gotta go.”
The call ends with all of the standard unsaid things. He’ll never get it. Never understand that some things matter more than a ladder to climb. He’ll likely never forgive me for leaving the Army—at least not until I can tell him I’ve achieved a rank others recognize.
I rinse out my coffee cup and head down to Alicia’s home gym. She’s got a nice set-up. A top-notch treadmill, rowing machine, stationary bike, a full weight set, and three television monitors on the wall that her cardio machines face.
Thirty minutes into a hard run, testing the limits of Alicia’s treadmill, the wall monitors flicker on. I nearly trip, catching myself as I hit the red stop button.
Alicia’s in form-fitting leggings, a matching jog bra, and running shoes. Her dark hair is up in a smooth ponytail, and she’s intent, pointing the remote like she’s wielding a weapon.
Newscasts from three different channels flick on, all set with subtitles. The overhead speakers come alive with The Weeknd.