Page 15 of As You Walk On

I’m midway through my post-run cooldown when I hear a familiar gasp, followed by an “Oh, shit!” coming from the kitchen. I grin to myself.

“Dad! I’m back!”

No response.

I should’ve expected that. Saturdays are dedicated to Dad catching up on his crime dramas. I do a couple of quad stretches, savoring the tightness exiting my muscles, before heading toward the kitchen.

On the way, I pause at the wall outside the entryway. The Louvre of Wright Family History. Old portraits in discounted frames. It starts with a yellowing photo of my G’Pa and Granny on their wedding day then shifts chronologically all the way to me and Dad, last year, laughing outside of Friday Night Film Fest. My favorite picture is of Granny and me hugging at Kentucky Pride. I was only nine then. We were there supporting Dad. Anytime I look at this photo, I imagine Granny knew she was there for Dadandme, even though I hadn’t come out yet.

I didn’t even know then.

She died when I was twelve.

The picture reminds me that sometimes people can love you even before you know who you really are.

I kiss the tip of my index finger, tapping Granny’s cheek before stepping into the kitchen.

Dad’s at the table, invested in his usual routine: watchingSVUNCISWhateveron his phone while sipping orange juice and crunching on turkey bacon. He’s a computer systems administrator who’s essentially on call all the time. Thankfully, it’s a remote jobnow. Still, it doesn’t leave much time for mindless TV marathons.

“Morning, Dad!”

Without looking, he flaps a hand at me, signaling I’m interrupting a crucial moment.

“Miles Davis Wright...” I start, putting on my best Granny voice, waiting for his head to snap up.

“Watch it, TJ,” he replies, his scowl on level ten. “G’morning.”

Yep, Dad’s another victim of the celebrity first-and-middle-name game permeating throughout the Wright bloodline. At least he’s named after a famous musician, not a TV character who didn’t even get a spin-off series.

He grew up in a ranch-style house in the West End. A lot of that area has changed since then. The government calls it “revitalization,” a nice SAT alternative to gentrification. But Dad’s “people” are all over Louisville. Same friends, same enemies, sameeverythingsince graduating from Brook-Oak.

Granny’s shown me numerous photos from Dad’s high school days. To put it lightly, he was quite popular. Homecoming Prince. Senior class vice president. Prom court. Co-captain of the soccer team. VotedMost Likely to Succeed.

I call it the Michael B. Jordan factor. Dad’s always had acne-free, smooth brown skin, a handsome, round face, winning smile.All the girls wanted him, Granny used to tell me.Different dates all the time. Then the boys came around and watch out!

He’s got double the number of followers I have on all social media apps.

“Good run?” Dad asks during an ad break.

“Eh.” I shrug.

“ ‘Eh’ won’t win conference finals,” he reminds me.

As if I needed it.

Track has been a part of my life since before winter break of freshman year. It was all Jay’s idea. Another way for the three of us to hang out more. At first, I agreed because it’s what my boys wanted to do. Then I fell in love with running. Moving faster than my brain could think. Being the reason everyone else around me won.

Dad loved it too. Not only because I excelled at it. Track eliminated one or two steps from The Plan.

Colleges adore a star athlete.

“It was good for a Saturday. Almost got my time down by two seconds,” I amend, ducking my head into the fridge.

“Impressive!”

I locate a Gatorade on a shelf crammed with takeout boxes and a Tupperware of chili Dad made a week ago. We’re not a family of cookers. Not since Granny died. My heartbeat triples when I almost knock over Dad’s pitcher of homemade cold brew. The last time I did that, he was furious. I’d left the mess for him to clean up. I chose to endure Dad’s wrath rather than Darren’s for being late meeting him outside my house.

Since he lives in the southeastern side of the city too, Darren’s cool enough to give me a ride to Brook-Oak on mornings Dad has early meetings. Our school’s only ten minutes from my house by car. Otherwise, it’s a forty-minute ride via public transportation, not counting the time it takes to walk to the nearest pickup stop.

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