Part of me is excited—a small part that I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment. I had secretly been hoping to see him again since the day my mother mentioned he was back in the area. I know it’s silly—stupid, really—but in a way he seems better than before. He’s drunk and possibly homeless, but I have missed him more than I realized, and maybe he’s just had a rough time lately. Who am I to judge this man when I don’t know anything about him?

When I look at him, and at the street surrounding us, it’s bizarre to see that everything is moving along as it normally should. I could have sworn time stopped when my father stumbled in front of us.

“Where are you living?” I ask.

Hardin’s defensive gaze is set on my father, watching him like he’s a dangerous predator.

“I’m in between places right now.” He wipes his forehead with his sleeve.

“Oh.”

“I was working down at Raymark, but I got laid off,” he tells me.

I vaguely recall hearing the name Raymark before. I think it’s some manufacturer. He’s been doing factory work?

“What have you been up to? It’s been, what . . . five years?”

I can feel Hardin stiffen next to me as I say, “No, it’s been nine.”

“Nine years? I’m sorry, Tessie.” His words are slightly slurred.

His nickname for me makes my heart sink; that name was used in the best of times. In the time when he would lift me up onto his shoulders and run through our small yard, the time before he left. I don’t know what to make of this. I want to cry because I haven’t seen him in so long, I want to laugh at the irony of seeing him here, and I want to yell at him for leaving me. It’s confusing to see him this way. I remember him as a drunk, but he was an angry drunk then, not a smiling, showing-off-tattoos-and-shaking-hands-with-my-boyfriend drunk. Maybe he’s changed into a nicer man . . .

“I think it’s time to go,” Hardin states, looking at my father.

“I really am sorry; it wasn’t all my fault. Your mother . . . you know how she is.” He defends himself, his hands waving in front of him. “Please, Theresa, give me a chance,” the man begs.

“Tessa . . .” Hardin warns beside me.

“Give us a second,” I say to my father. I grab Hardin by the arm and lead him a few feet away.

“What the hell are you doing? You aren’t actually going to—” he begins.

“He’s my dad, Hardin.”

“He’s a fucking homeless drunk,” he spits with annoyance.

Tears prick my eyes from Hardin’s truthful but harsh words. “I haven’t seen him in nine years.”

“Exactly—because he left you. It’s a waste of time, Tessa.” He glances behind me at my father.

“I don’t care. I want to hear him out.”

“I mean, I guess so. It’s not like you’re inviting him to the apartment or anything.” He shakes his head.

“If I want to, I will. And if he wants to come, he’s coming over. It’s my place, too,” I snap. I look over at my father. He’s standing there, wearing dirty clothes, staring down at the concrete in front of him. When was the last time he slept in a bed? Had a meal? The thought makes my heart ache.

“You aren’t seriously considering having him come home with us?” Hardin’s fingers slide through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration.

“Not to live or anything—just for tonight. We could make dinner,” I offer. My father looks up and makes eye contact with me. I look away as he starts to smile.

“Dinner? Tessa, he’s a goddamn drunk who hasn’t seen you in almost ten years . . . and you’re talking about making dinner for him?”

Embarrassed at his outburst, I pull him by the collar closer to me and speak low. “He’s my father, Hardin, and I don’t have a relationship with my mother anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to have one with this guy. This isn’t going to end well, Tess. You’re too damn nice to everyone when they don’t deserve it.”

“This is important to me,” I tell him, and his eyes soften before I can point out the irony of his objections.

He sighs and tugs at his messy hair in frustration.“Dammit, Tessa, this isn’t going to end well.”

“You don’t know how it will end, Hardin,” I whisper and look over at my father, who’s running his fingers over his beard. I know Hardin may be right, but I owe it to myself to attempt to get to know this man, or at least to hear what he has to say.

I go back over to my father, instinctive apprehension making my voice waver a little. “Do you want to come to our place for dinner?”

“Really?” he exclaims, hope threading through his face.

“Yeah.”

“Okay! Yeah, okay!” He smiles, and for a brief moment the man I remember flashes through—the man before the liquor, that is.

Hardin doesn’t say a word as we all walk to the car. I know he’s angry, and I understand why. But I also know that his father has changed for the better—he runs our college, for goodness’ sakes. Am I so foolish for hoping to witness a similar change in my father?

When we approach the car, my father asks, “Whoa—this is yours? It’s a Capri, right? Late-seventies model?”

“Yep.” Hardin climbs into the driver’s seat.

My father doesn’t question Hardin’s terse response, and I’m glad for it. The radio is set low, and as soon as Hardin revs the engine, we both reach for the knob at the same time, in hopes that music will drown out the uncomfortable silence.