Page 12 of Yard Sale

“Clara, girl. We’re not doing body-shaming today,” I told her, holding up a hand. “I’m Indian, so I have, like, a hundred aunties up my ass making sure I’m being fed.”

She pulled a face at me. “Do you always have to make everything some kind of fucking crusade?”

“Yes. I have my steed and chain mail outside. Be right back, going to hunt for the holy grail.”

“I’m leaving,” she snapped.

The room emptied, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being hard on her for no reason. Well, not no reason. I had a thousand reasons, and grief was the source of each one. I regretted everything about my life except breaking up with Leon and skipping that weird white-people taco truck everyone wanted to eat at three months ago.

Some people were still shitting weird, and Leon was still a cheating douchebag, which taught me the perfect lesson: never date history or philosophy professors.

Scrubbing my hands down my face, I picked up my phone and hit my dad’s number, though I knew he probably wasn’t going to answer. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week, smack in the middle of playoffs.

I couldn’t remember where he was, but I knew he was likely going to be pacing in front of the bench, screaming orders at his players, working up a sweat made of anxiety and fear because I knew this season was important to him.

He was taking over after a real shit-stain of a human being, and while his team could hold their own, everyone was nervous about how he was going to do. He had a lot going against him, and I knew he was tired.

But I also knew that no matter what was happening in the game, if he could pick up my call, he would.

After Mom, well…neither one of us was willing to ignore each other if we could help it.

“Aravind.”

“Everything’s fine,” I told him like I did every time he picked up a call. “I was just wondering if you’ve heard about Nadeau⁠—”

“I don’t know how he is. I texted you this morning. Now, I have to—for Christ’s sake! Zeki, if you don’t learn to pick up that fucking pass…”

“Oookay. I’m gonna go. Talk to you later.”

“Love you.”

I took a breath. “I love you” wasn’t a thing we said to each other, but in the past few years, it was every time we hung up the phone. I didn’t hate it. I wasn’t one of those people who believed that the phrase could lose meaning by saying it too much.

But it was just another reminder that everything was flipped upside down and different now that my mom was gone, and there was no hope of it ever going back to the way it was.

“I love you too.”

“Louder. I’m going to put you on speaker so everyone can hear how my son is finally grateful for me as a dad and⁠—”

“Bye!” I was only fifty percent sure he was joking, and I wasn’t willing to take the risk.

Dropping my phone into my pocket, I stood up, stretched my back, then decided I’d do a little investigative journalism. That was part of the job, after all, and there were a couple of guys in the PPHL who were in town after getting knocked out of the playoffs.

With a little coy smile and maybe a sprinkle of bribery, I might be able to get some information out of them and finally—finally—be done with this godforsaken project.

With nearly everyone on lunch, it was a lot easier to creep out of the office, but I only got as far as the lobby before Daryl came slinking around the corner with a coffee in each hand and a look on his face like he was running the goddamn New York Times and not the Sports Gazette.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He was tall with short-guy energy, skinny enough to look gaunt, cheekbones that most people would die for, but they didn’t fit his face. He was always scowling, and if he wasn’t doing that, he looked like he was sniffing frat-boy farts.

Which maybe he was.

I didn’t know his business, and I didn’t want to.

“I’m taking a lunch,” I told him, and he sucked in a breath, probably to tell me that I couldn’t, so I held up a hand. “Then I’m heading out to get a follow-up on the game last night and Tiago’s status.”

He blinked his small, watery eyes at me. God, his face looked so red. Was he okay?

“You’re never going to make it in this business.” His voice was weirdly calm.