the best part about her, she has no idea," I said.
Jackson smiled and nodded his head. He understood.
"I really like her, man." I pleaded my case without saying too much. I attempted to muster as much sincerity as possible and make it clear that I needed him to back off. We fell for the same girl dozens of times, but he always won. I never cared, but with Carrington, I cared. She was mine.
"Well, like I told you before, be yourself and let her know how you feel."
Jackson continued to his room. He paused, as if to say something, but changed his mind.
"Hey man," I said. "Thanks."
He nodded and disappeared into his room.
I crawled back into bed. I lay there for a long time, wide-awake. I heard what Jackson said and worried about what he chose not to say.
I gave up on sleep and instead took a shower and got dressed. I called Carrington but got no answer. I texted her. Again, no response. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed out of my room and down the stairs, plotting opportunities to run into her over by the freshman dorms. As soon as I reached the first landing, all thoughts of Carrington left my head. My father’s voice echoed up the stairs.
I walked back up the stairs and back to my room, cussing under my breath as I tried to figure out how to get out of the house without him noticing me. I had to think fast because if I waited too long to come down, he would send someone up to fetch me.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Josh," one of my frat brothers yelled through the door, "Your dad's here."
I paused before answering. Maybe he would go away.
"Josh, man, your dad," he said in a more desperate voice. Like if he returned without me in tow, it would disappoint the great Joshua Elijah Griffin, III.
"I'll be right there."
"Okay, man. Your father is here."
He sounded like an eight-year-old boy announcing Santa Claus coming to town. My dad was no Santa Claus.
I took a look in the mirror and decided to change my shirt. No need to give him any ammunition to ridicule me. He had a list of go-to insults; he didn’t need any prompting from me. I pulled on a blue button-down and made sure to tuck it into my jeans. I also made sure my belt matched my shoes before heading down the stairs. The pain in my chest increased with every step.
"You boys don't know how to throw a party."
I spotted Dad holding court in the main room with eight of my brothers, including Randolph and Jackson, all on the edge of their seats. "Back in the day, when we threw a party, we didn't recover until a week later." He slapped Jackson on the back, and the group laughed.
"Sir, I have a game to play tomorrow."
"Hell, we played the game still drunk and had to read in the paper the next morning whether we won or not."
The guys chuckled. Randolph laughed the loudest.
I entered the room and stood by the door with my hands in my pockets.
"There he is. There's my son."
I cringed when he said it. His toned conveyed both an apology and a declaration of reluctant acceptance. It no way sounded like pride.
"Hey Dad."
My dad waited across the room with his arms opened wide, waiting to embrace me and play out this adoring father-son facade. I walked into his arms, and he hugged me, but my arms remained at my side.
"You look good son. Damn good."
"Thanks."
"How's it going?” he asked.
“Fine." I avoided his gaze and tried to shake off the heavy headed feeling. The brothers acted normal, use to my father’s visits. My chest tightened whenever I stood near him.
Everyone watched me. My father turned his attention back to Jackson.
"So, how's the team looking this year?" He wrapped an arm around Jackson's neck. I never noticed how much Jackson and my dad looked alike. They shared the same dark brown hair and both towered over everyone in their presence. If Jackson were my dad’s son, it would make more sense. My dad and I never made sense.
I wanted people to think my mother adopted me, but even at five-foot-ten, I looked exactly like her.
"We are going
Jackson smiled and nodded his head. He understood.
"I really like her, man." I pleaded my case without saying too much. I attempted to muster as much sincerity as possible and make it clear that I needed him to back off. We fell for the same girl dozens of times, but he always won. I never cared, but with Carrington, I cared. She was mine.
"Well, like I told you before, be yourself and let her know how you feel."
Jackson continued to his room. He paused, as if to say something, but changed his mind.
"Hey man," I said. "Thanks."
He nodded and disappeared into his room.
I crawled back into bed. I lay there for a long time, wide-awake. I heard what Jackson said and worried about what he chose not to say.
I gave up on sleep and instead took a shower and got dressed. I called Carrington but got no answer. I texted her. Again, no response. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed out of my room and down the stairs, plotting opportunities to run into her over by the freshman dorms. As soon as I reached the first landing, all thoughts of Carrington left my head. My father’s voice echoed up the stairs.
I walked back up the stairs and back to my room, cussing under my breath as I tried to figure out how to get out of the house without him noticing me. I had to think fast because if I waited too long to come down, he would send someone up to fetch me.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Josh," one of my frat brothers yelled through the door, "Your dad's here."
I paused before answering. Maybe he would go away.
"Josh, man, your dad," he said in a more desperate voice. Like if he returned without me in tow, it would disappoint the great Joshua Elijah Griffin, III.
"I'll be right there."
"Okay, man. Your father is here."
He sounded like an eight-year-old boy announcing Santa Claus coming to town. My dad was no Santa Claus.
I took a look in the mirror and decided to change my shirt. No need to give him any ammunition to ridicule me. He had a list of go-to insults; he didn’t need any prompting from me. I pulled on a blue button-down and made sure to tuck it into my jeans. I also made sure my belt matched my shoes before heading down the stairs. The pain in my chest increased with every step.
"You boys don't know how to throw a party."
I spotted Dad holding court in the main room with eight of my brothers, including Randolph and Jackson, all on the edge of their seats. "Back in the day, when we threw a party, we didn't recover until a week later." He slapped Jackson on the back, and the group laughed.
"Sir, I have a game to play tomorrow."
"Hell, we played the game still drunk and had to read in the paper the next morning whether we won or not."
The guys chuckled. Randolph laughed the loudest.
I entered the room and stood by the door with my hands in my pockets.
"There he is. There's my son."
I cringed when he said it. His toned conveyed both an apology and a declaration of reluctant acceptance. It no way sounded like pride.
"Hey Dad."
My dad waited across the room with his arms opened wide, waiting to embrace me and play out this adoring father-son facade. I walked into his arms, and he hugged me, but my arms remained at my side.
"You look good son. Damn good."
"Thanks."
"How's it going?” he asked.
“Fine." I avoided his gaze and tried to shake off the heavy headed feeling. The brothers acted normal, use to my father’s visits. My chest tightened whenever I stood near him.
Everyone watched me. My father turned his attention back to Jackson.
"So, how's the team looking this year?" He wrapped an arm around Jackson's neck. I never noticed how much Jackson and my dad looked alike. They shared the same dark brown hair and both towered over everyone in their presence. If Jackson were my dad’s son, it would make more sense. My dad and I never made sense.
I wanted people to think my mother adopted me, but even at five-foot-ten, I looked exactly like her.
"We are going
Similar Books
