There have been a few moments over the last few years, before he got sober, when my dad was really a dad. The night before my fourteenth birthday, he told me exactly what present I was getting the next day. He was buying me a new glove, an expensive one with flexible webbing that would translate well no matter what base I played. His eyes lit up when he talked about it, and he told me that it was a special order from Fresno, and the shop was breaking it in.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I laid awake with my old glove on my hand, the fit small and the webbing brittle. I pretended to toss a ball and catch it as I stared at the ceiling, bathing in the warmth that flooded my chest because my dad really did love me. I couldn’t focus on a thing, and I knew that my life would live on pause until I got that new glove in my hands. The glove never came. I remember hating him then, thinking it was a cruel joke he pulled, promising me something he knew I’d want so badly that I’d lose sleep imagining it, just to take it away in the morning.

Time gives perspective on things. For me, it took four years to understand that my dad wasn’t playing a joke. He was deluding himself for a moment, too—believing that he could afford to give me a gift like that. A four-hundred-dollar glove is half of our mortgage. We never talked about it, but I’m fairly certain he was just as crushed telling me the glove wasn’t going to happen after all. I got a used one a few weeks later. For a while, I abused it—left it on the field hoping it’d get stolen, let it bake in the sun or soak in the rain. Eventually, I forgot that I resented it. It’s the glove I wore for the photoshoot, and it’s the one that’s been on my hand for every diving play I’ve made out on my high school field. I still thought of the expensive one, though. I thought about it often. I still wanted it.

Obsessions work that way.

I can feel the weight of the money Shawn gave me in my bag. My mind will not stop trying to conjure an image of the people my father owes. I don’t know what they look like other than the rendering the police sent home with my dad. My dad calls one of them Mike; he’s the guy who works at the loan store. He’s not the one who loaned the money. He just knew a guy who knew a guy. According to police databases, the guys Mike led my father to don’t even exist. They’re ghosts.

With the bundle from Shawn stuffed in the bottom of my backpack, I rush out to the parking lot to meet my dad where he’s waiting to take me to my session with Rebecca. I find him leaning on his car, his arms folded as he’s ready to scold me for ditching this morning and spouting off things I’m sure he thinks are crazy. His foot starts to tap and his head dips, like it did when I used to hide my report card from him only to have him find it under my mattress weeks later and still unsigned by a parent.

“You drive, I’ll talk,” I say, not letting him lead the direction this all goes. I keep my bag with me, tucking it between my knees as we both get into the car, and the second my dad pulls out of the lot, I unzip the bag and remove the envelope of money.

“Forty-seven thousand, two hundred and two.”

I toss it into his lap and he jerks a little, his head swiveling to look at me while his left hand picks up the thick packet of bills.

“Where did you get this?” he says, scanning around the intersection we’re stopped at before peeking inside to see that I’m right about money being in there.

“I told you, Wes and I went to a trailer by the lake, where his dad-slash-uncle lived, and…”

“Joss, I know who the hell Shawn Stokes is. The man can’t stand me; why the hell would he give you money to bail me out of trouble?”

My dad tosses the cash back to me, almost disgusted by it, and I stare at his face as I pull it into the safety of my lap. This cash is the key—it’s all I have. It has to work, and we can’t afford to lose it.

“He wanted to help,” I say.

“Bullshit,” my dad says, looking both ways before turning left and hitting the highway. He chuckles as he shakes his head. “I bet that money’s stolen, marked or something, and the minute I hand it over to someone I’ll be caught in a big sting operation or something.”

“You’re being crazy,” I say, my voice growing louder.

“Psh, I’m crazy. Listen to you…with this whole Shawn and Wes, and he’s really his dad, and he secretly left this money for you, and it’s exactly the right amount. Did you even count it? I bet it’s not even real money.”

My dad’s face is growing red, and I’m not sure if it’s because he knows the real reason Shawn would bail him out or because he’s genuinely mad and suspicious. I decide to quit pretending I don’t know the truth, though, and I toss the envelope back into his lap, infuriating him for a brief second before I speak.

“He left this money for you because he was in love with mom, and he loves me because she told him to. It’s all there. Wes counted it. There’s no way it could be the exact amount you need if what I’m telling you wasn’t real. Wes is Shawn’s son, and for some strange reason, this universe has decided he needs to protect me. He was the boy who saved me…he saved me when you drove the car at our house…”

I take a deep breath, still not used to saying this next part, but knowing it’s the part he needs to hear. He’ll know I’m right then.

“He saved me when I was three, and mom was home alone with me, in the garage…the motor running…”

My dad’s eyes close just as he pulls to a stop at the red light. His fingers work around the wheel, his grip tightening and relaxing, the tension falling from his face and his mouth sloping down on the ends.

“I know she was sick. I know how hard it was, for you…for her. I know that it wasn’t about either of you not wanting me. But Wes knew I was in that garage, Dad. He saved me. Shawn knew this trouble was coming, and he left money for me to find. Sometimes, Dad, you have to just believe in things. If you don’t pay these guys off…”

I feel my eyes start to burn, and I push my right fist into them, refusing to let them tear.

“I’m afraid they’re going to really hurt you, Daddy. I can’t…I…”

“Okay,” my dad says, his own voice choking up with his words. He looks down at the money envelope clutched in his left hand, and he reaches toward me with his right, squeezing my palm tightly. “Okay. I’ll give them the money. We’ll end this. Okay,” he says.

My body starts to float, a thousand pounds rising from my bones, my lungs filling completely, my throat opening up.

“Thank you,” I say, letting my dad accept it all quietly as he drives the rest of the way to my training session.

He holds his hand over his mouth, his elbow propped on the window, and all I can see are his eyes darting around the landscape in front of him. I’m almost positive that underneath that palm he’s talking to himself, trying to undo what’s been done to me, to undo what he has to do now. I’m just like him—I talk to myself, too.

But in the end, we walk the paths we must. It’s never been easy.

My dad pulls near the curb and I get out, holding the door open to look him in the eyes. I don’t ask him to promise, but he says the words anyway.

“I’ll end this,” he adds on to the end. “I’ll be back by five.”

My dad starts to pull away as I flip the passenger door closed, but I wave him down before he reaches the end of the curb. I open the door again, and hold up a finger before he can ask what I need. I reach into my other backpack pocket and pull out a new bag of sunflower seeds, pickled, and I toss them into the seat I just left.

“I bought you a present today…at the gas station on our way back into town,” I say, my lips puckered in a smile.

My dad turns the bag in the seat to read it.

“Pickled?”

“It’s good. I promise you’ll like it,” I say.

“You’re a thoughtful daughter, making a special stop while ditching school just to pick something up for me,” my dad says, nodding through his words and lacing them with sarcasm.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you, Josselyn. I’m sure I’ll love them,’” I joke.

“I’m pretty sure the words I should be looking for are ‘get your ass to work, and quit horsing around.’” He gestures to the building behind me, and I push the door closed again, stepping backward onto the curb.

I watch my dad drive away, and just before he turns, he holds up the bag of seeds and gives them a shake—his way of saying thanks.

Rebecca is already setting up obstacles and weights for me inside, so I put my things away and jump right into work. We train me for faster side-to-side movement, and spend the last hour of my workout completely shredding my obliques.

“My six-pack is going to put Kyle’s to shame!” I say, lifting my T-shirt and flexing in the gym mirror after my last set.

“Those are baby muscles, girly-girl,” I hear Kyle’s voice boom behind me.

I roll my eyes as he pretends to tear away his shirt, catching the bottom in his teeth so he can run his fingers over his well-defined abs.

“Are you inviting me to punch you there?” I tease, and the shirt falls from his mouth.

“Just flaunting the goods, Joss,” he says, his eyes flirting with the two girls working with a personal trainer to the right of us. They blush, and I know they were watching my friend perform. Unable to pass up the opportunity, I wait for the perfect moment to make sure his fans hear me.

“The hair plugs look like they’re taking. Still amazing how they can take hair from…” I wiggle my finger, pointing toward his crotch, and smirk when his bold smile collapses into a flat line, his eyes hazing and his head tilting with a hint of disappointment over the fact that he didn’t see that coming.

The girls try to hide their giggling, then move on with their workouts. I step closer to my friend, reaching forward to tickle his stomach and lighten his mood. I feel bad for razzing him, but I’m not sorry I did it. We’ve come full circle, Kyle and me—and public embarrassment has always been a part of our friendship code.

“Tickles aren’t going to make this better,” he says, sneering at me. I tickle harder because I know he’s joking, and pretty soon he lifts me over his shoulder, locking my legs down with his arms.

“This one about done?” he asks Rebecca.

“She’s done for today. Just don’t break her before the photo shoot Saturday,” Rebecca says, handing my towel to me while Kyle lifts my bag from the floor.

I grunt a few times with the movement, his shoulder pressing into my stomach, and as soon as we clear the doors to the sidewalk, I swat him with the rolled towel in my hand, snapping his calf hard enough to leave a mark.

“Ow!” he shouts, lowering me from his hold before hopping around and grabbing his stinging skin. I laugh so loud it echoes in the alcove of the gym, but I stop when I realize that Kyle is here instead of my dad.

“Why are you picking me up?” I ask.

“Your dad called me, said he had something he had to do,” Kyle says, nodding his head toward his truck and leading me out into the lot.

I trail a few steps behind, my stomach tight with worry. I was going to be anxious whenever my dad went to pay off our debt, but I expected to have a day to prepare for it, at least a night to sleep on it. I know it’s where he went, and I feel helpless not knowing where that place is physically.

I tell myself this is the right move over and over again as Kyle drives us home, some country song blasting through his speakers, barely drowning out his poor singing voice. I manage to give him a smile, and I fake a laugh whenever he looks my direction and sings to me, elbowing me to try to get me to sing along. I can’t think of the words, and my mouth has lost its feeling.

By the time we pull up to my driveway, my heart is aching from the quick beats, and my mouth is drowning in saliva. My palms are sweaty, my neck is cool, and I can’t hide the fact that something’s wrong anymore.

“Joss, you don’t look good,” Kyle says, quickly turning the music down and pushing the button on my seatbelt to ease the slack. I slump forward and catch myself on the dash, my head resting on the rubber above the glove box while I stare at my blade leg and shoe, my vision starting to get yellow around the edges.

“I just overdid it.” It’s a half-lie, because I’m sure that’s part of the reason I feel sick right now, but the trigger is definitely panic.

“Your dad’s here,” Kyle says, leaving his door open while he rushes around the front of the truck and opens my side. He puts an arm in behind me and helps me from my seat.

“My dad?” I ask.

“Yeah, his car’s here. He must be home. And it’s Gerald’s night tonight,” he says, pointing to rent-a-cop.

“Gerald? You know his name?” My forehead bunches, and my skin is rushed with cold as relief sets in.

“Yeah, me and Ger…we had a little…thing,” he says, his hand sliding away from me slowly as I hold up a palm to assure him I’m steady on my legs.

“Thing,” I repeat.

Kyle winces and bites his bottom lip.

“I might have made pig noises out the window when Conner drove by the other day. Douchebag brother stopped the car, put it in park, and got out just to make sure we didn’t get away. Did you know Gerald was a Marine? Retired…but still…dude’s strong.”

I stare at my friend with my mouth open, then breathe out a laugh as he holds up a hand to wave to Gerald, who flips him off in return.

“Don’t piss off the bodyguard,” I say, punching Kyle in the arm. I let him carry my bag into my house, through the garage, stopping in the kitchen to pull the bottle of orange juice from the fridge door, unscrewing it and tilting it back to guzzle down without a glass.

The top of my dad’s head sticks out from the back of his chair, and my grandmother is sitting across from him on the couch, the reading light on as she flips through a tabloid magazine she got at the grocery store.

“Grace made stew. It’s in the crockpot. I didn’t know we had a crockpot,” my dad says over his shoulder. I stare at the normalcy in front of me, then swivel my view to Kyle, then to the corner area near the fridge where a mustard-colored pot sits on the counter, boiling with carrots and beef.

“You wanna stay for dinner?” I ask.

“I’m good,” Kyle says, kissing the top of my head then lifting his shirt to rub his belly as he backs away. I grimace and pretend to gag, and my friend laughs his way back through the door. I follow him out and close the garage, coming back in to serve myself up something homemade and deliciously foreign. If Grace keeps making food like this, my dad will not want her to leave.

“So did you do it?” I ask, topping off my bowl with one more spoonful before putting the lid back on the pot. I’m vague, because of Grace, but my dad knows what I mean.

“I did,” he says, and I grin, salting my broth, anxious for Gerald to get to go home.

When I turn, his back is still to me, so I walk into the living room and take the seat next to my grandmother.

“I’m really glad,” I say, the words tumbling from my mouth soft and subtle, the hidden meaning behind them—I’m so relieved. My dad looks at me after a full second and smiles with tight lips.

“It’s best when it’s hot,” he says, pointing to the stew cradled in my lap.

I sit briefly with my family, slurping the hot vegetables and waiting for my dad’s favorite part of the news—when they show the week’s biggest sports blunders in under a minute. He and I laugh, and Grace looks at us like we’re crazy. I’m setting up at the Jungle Gym in the morning, so I excuse myself when the show ends, rinsing my bowl and dropping it in the dishwasher.

I stop to kiss my dad and Grace goodnight, then drag my heavy bag into my bedroom, pulling my phone out just before my body hits my sheets. I dial Wes as I roll to my back, and he answers on the first ring.

“I was totally waiting for your call. I can’t even lie about it,” he says, the familiar laugh that echoes in his chest filling my ear.

“I like making you wait,” I tease.

“Hmmm,” he responds.

I blush through the brief silence, grabbing one corner of my blanket and rolling with it, covering my arms and good leg.

“Did you talk to your dad?”

I glance through the sliver of space left open in my door, the hallway illuminating with the changing lights from the TV. The house still smells of Grace’s stew.

“I did. He said it was taken care of. I don’t know what happens now, or if we still have to be watched for a while, or if the cops will be mad that he paid them. I don’t care; I just want to feel free and happy for once, you know?”

Rolling to my other side, my eye catches the reflection of something tucked in the space under my dresser. Kicking the blanket from my body, I move to the floor and lay flat, feeling with my fingertips, recognizing it the second I touch the cool metal and grooves on the side.

“You’re not going to believe what I just found,” I say, sitting up and pulling my drawer out completely.

The can is dented, and the shape is deformed. I’m sure I shoved it underneath years ago to clean my room, and it’s been lodged under the heavy wood furniture ever since. The paper has yellowed, and the tape is brittle and dry, but the label is still there.

“Joss and Taryn’s Race, put tickets inside,” I read, feeling my fingers into the bent space, hoping to find more treasures.

“No way!” Wes says, as I feel around the can. The only thing there is a nearly empty bag of chalk shavings.

“The powder is still here.”

“Powder?” he asks.

“I made my own chalk for the race lines. I used mom’s cheese grater and pieces of chalk my dad brought home from school, or the big chunks I used to draw on the sidewalk with Taryn,” I say, smiling as I hold the rainbow dust up as I flip on my nearby lamp.

“That must have taken you forever,” Wes says.

“Days. No…weeks,” I hum, my eyes getting lost in the memory. “I wanted it all to be perfect.”

For a moment, in my memory, it all was perfect. Those races were everything to me and my friends, and that last one brought me Wes. As horrible as that day was, there will always be this small silver lining.

“You know you probably could have just spray-painted the lines,” Wes says.

I chuckle to myself. I’d actually never even considered it. I’m sure my dad would have bought me a can. He would have done anything to let me compete back then, even in stupid skipping races around our shitty backyard.

“I like the way it was,” I say, setting the can down on my night table and tucking the dusty bag inside.

“I talked to my parents,” Wes says, the change in subject fast, my mind slow to catch up. My eyes widen in surprise when it does.

“Wa…wow,” I stammer. “And it went…”

He laughs, the phone rustling against the stubble on his cheek as he moves.

“It went well. Levi and TK helped. Mom was more freaked out than Dad. They both said they knew I was different. Dad’s seen me do some things, like touch hot parts on the truck. I did the stove thing, and Mom got a little hysterical,” he says.

“She doesn’t want her baby to get hurt,” I say.

“Ha, no. She doesn’t. She forbade me from ‘parlor tricks.’ Her exact words. She also told me I’m not allowed to join a circus or go to Vegas. I’m not sure what the Vegas part was about,” he says.

“Chris Angel,” I respond. “She doesn’t want you to become some sideshow.”

“Chris Angel is dope,” he responds, “and rich.”

“I’m with your mom. No sideshow,” I say. “And dope? Really?”

“The man is. No way around it,” he says, the vibration of his laugh soothing me.

It’s quiet for a few seconds—just his breath, then mine.

“I’m proud of you, Wes.” I like saying his name. I like feeling proud of him.

“I didn’t really do anything, but thanks,” he says. I correct him quickly.

“You did. Telling your parents about who you are…and I know you’re still just their son, but this part of you…these things? They’re also who you are, and I know it was scary,” I say.

“Hmmm,” he agrees, sighing lightly.

I hear one of his brothers in the background, and he moves the phone, muffling the sounds while he says something about looking in the truck or in the garage.

“Sorry, TK can’t find his cleats,” he says.

“Oh.”

I wait through more silence, my gut telling me there’s more he wants to say, something else that’s bothering him. I can sense it in the quiet.

“Maybe I can fix it,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Whatever it is…whatever’s wrong or making you, I don’t know, a little off. Whatever it is, maybe I can fix it. Sometimes I do know how to fix things,” I say, smiling to myself. “I fixed your change-up, didn’t I?”

“Slider,” he laughs.

I open my mouth to correct him again, like I always do, but instead, breathe out a short laugh and shake my head, deciding tonight he gets to think he’s right about it. Next time I’ll insist, but tonight, the debate is his.

“I heard from Shawn,” he finally says.

His news doesn’t surprise me. That man may disappear, but he’ll never be completely gone.

“He called?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Wes says, his deep breath turning into a yawn.

I can hear the crickets from outside his window through the phone. I’d open my window, but that will only make Gerald get out of his car. I like him where he is.

“What’d he have to say?” I can’t help but want to know.

“Same old cryptic shit he always says. Told me he would be in Texas...Midland. Some doctor there who specializes in spine and nerve degeneration. He’s part of some trial that’s supposed to recalculate the way things fire from your brain by forcing you to learn to move pictures around on a computer. It all sounds like science fiction to me,” Wes says.

“Some might say you’re a lot like science fiction,” I joke, trying to make light of something I know deep down bothers him. I let the quiet settle in a little more. “Did you tell your parents? Not that he called, but that he…”

“They don’t need to know,” Wes answers without pause. “I talked to TK and Levi about it a lot. I don’t need anything from him. And I have no plans to ever go to Texas.”

“How about Chico State?”

I ask as a joke, knowing I might not even get in or end up there. As always, though, Wes believes in me most.

“I’ll follow you anywhere. But remember, screw them, and go to Stanford,” he says, his laugh delayed, but beautiful. He yawns again, this time sparking one of my own.

“I should probably shower,” I say.

“Your dad’s home, otherwise…” His voice is seductive, and I close my eyes, remembering him here. My bed still smells like him, and I may never wash my sheets because of it.

“But he is, so I guess you’ll just have to ask one of your brothers to shower with you,” I tease, getting a rise from him quickly.

“And on that note…” he coughs.

I laugh along with him, until the sounds on both sides of our call fade into a comfortable silence. I could sit like this with him for hours, not speaking, but just knowing he’s there. There’s comfort in knowing someone is thinking about me at the exact moment I’m thinking about them.

“I love you, Wesley Stokes,” I say.

“I love the way you say my name, Josselyn Winters,” he says back.

I nuzzle my face against my palm and the phone, wishing it was him.

“Good night,” he says, and I say the same, counting the seconds before either of us hangs up. I get to twenty before he’s gone.