Page 108 of Play Along With Me
My father and I have what could generously be described as a "sometimes" relationship. Following my parents' messy divorce when I was twelve, he moved to Chicago, remarried, had two more kids, and generally built a life where I existed on the periphery. We talk on birthdays and major holidays, exchange the occasional text, and maintain the fiction that we're more involved in each other's lives than we actually are.
Still, there's something about this moment—this strange, suspended state between my old life and whatever's coming next—that makes me want to reach out across the usual distance.
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
"Audrey?" My father's voice has the surprised quality of someone who's just seen a particularly unusual bird outside their window. "Everything okay?"
"Hey, Dad. Yeah, everything's fine. Just... wanted to call. Catch up. You know."
"Oh." He sounds both pleased and confused. "That's... great. How's the writing going?"
This is my father's standard opening question, as reliable as the sunrise. He always asks about my writing, though he's never actually read anything I've written. It's his way of acknowledging my existence while keeping comfortable distance from the details.
"Still working on it," I say, my standard response. "But actually, that's not why I called. I, um, met someone."
"Someone... like a literary agent?" he asks, clearly grasping for why this would merit an unexpected phone call.
"No, Dad. A guy. Like, a romantic someone."
"Ah." The syllable contains multitudes—surprise, awkwardness, the fundamental discomfort of a father contemplating his daughter's love life. "Well, that's... good?"
"It is good," I confirm, pulling on work pants while cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder. "It's new, but... I don't know. Special. Different from before."
"Before? You mean the professor guy?"
"Daniel. Yes." The fact that my father can't remember the name of someone I dated for three years is a perfect encapsulation of our relationship. "This is... anyway, his name is Jake. He plays professional hockey."
"Hockey, huh?" This detail seems to perk my father up. "NHL? What team?"
"Boston Saints," I say, grateful to be on more solid conversational ground. "He's their backup goalie. Just got called up from the minors."
"No kidding! I follow hockey sometimes. Marshall, right? The kid from Minnesota who played for BU?"
I nearly drop my shirt in surprise. "You know who he is?"
"I catch a game now and then. Saw one of his college championships, I think. Good goalie. Quick glove hand."
The surreality of this conversation—my father knowing more about Jake's hockey career than he does about my life—is too bizarre to process fully.
"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, pulling my hair into a ponytail. "We met through a, uh, mutual acquaintance. It's been pretty whirlwind, actually. I've already met his parents."
"Wow, moving fast there, Audrey," my father says, and I can hear the raised eyebrows in his voice. "You sure about this?"
It's a fair question, one that any concerned parent might ask. But coming from my father, who once forgot to tell me he was taking my half-siblings to Disney World over Christmas (a trip I learned about from Facebook photos), it strikes a dissonant chord.
"I'm figuring it out," I say, more sharply than intended. "But yeah, I think I am. He's... good. To me. For me."
"Well, that's all that matters then," my father says, retreating to platitudes as he always does when emotions get too complicated. "Just, you know, be careful. Athletes have a certain reputation."
"So do absent fathers, but I've learned not to generalize," I reply before I can stop myself.
There's a tense silence, the familiar fault line in our relationship threatening to widen into a chasm.
"I deserved that," he finally says, surprising me with the admission. "I haven't been the most present dad."
This unexpected moment of self-awareness catches me off guard. "No, I'm sorry. That was unnecessary. I'm just…"
"It's okay, Audrey. Look, I'm happy you've met someone who makes you happy. That's what any parent wants for their kid. And if he's a Saints player, that's pretty cool. Your old man can brag a little."
