Tell Me You're Sorry by Kevin O'Brien Page A

him was afraid to. Another part of him simply never wanted to see his father again. He spent the night at Billy’s. The following night, he stayed at his grandmother’s place in Highland Park, the house his dad had grown up in. Ryan chose to sleep in the guest room rather than his father’s old bedroom.
    His grandmother was a pretty sharp old lady. She was petite with auburn hair and a lot of energy. She didn’t dote on him too much. She phoned his parents to tell them he was there. Neither his mom nor dad tried to talk him into coming home. The following afternoon, while his father was at work, Ryan came by the house to pack a couple of suitcases. He’d decided to live with his grandmother.
    He wasn’t too surprised to hear that his father didn’t care. But he felt sort of disillusioned that his mother would go along with it simply to keep peace at home. It made Ryan realize that she’d always been pretty ineffectual when it came to curbing his dad’s oppressive ways. She never stood up to him.
    The only time Ryan had ever heard his parents argue had been about four years ago. It had something to do with a Father’s Day card. He remembered trying to block out the sound of the raised voices and his mother sobbing in their bedroom down the hall. After a few minutes, his dad barged into his room, waving an envelope. “Did you send this to me and not sign it?” he demanded to know.
    Baffled, Ryan took the envelope and pulled out a sappy Father’s Day card—with a baby’s hand clutching a man’s finger on the cover—and no signature inside. “No, sorry,” he murmured, handing the card and envelope back to his father. “Father’s Day isn’t until Sunday. I was going to get you something tomorrow. Who do you think—”
    â€œForget it,” his dad grunted. He threw the card and the envelope into Ryan’s Notre Dame wastebasket, and stomped out of the bedroom. “Sweetheart!” he called, heading down the hallway. “Sharon, listen, it’s just some stupid mistake or someone playing a joke . . .”
    He never asked his parents about it. But Ryan couldn’t help wondering if that card meant his dad had another kid out there somewhere—a kid who was illegitimate. Maybe that was why his mother had been crying. He tried to imagine his secret half-sibling, disowned by their common father.
    The lucky bastard.
    If this kid was really out there somewhere, Ryan now had something in common with him—or her. For the last six weeks, their father hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, either.
    He and his dad hadn’t spoken since the game against Stevenson. Ryan had returned to the house several times to visit his mom, Ashley, and Keith—always while his dad was at work. He’d even had dinner with them one night two weeks ago, when his dad had been out of town on business.
    His mother had made a lame attempt to reconcile them for Thanksgiving. But neither he nor his dad would budge. So while his grandmother celebrated Thanksgiving with his family over at his house, Ryan went to Billy’s and had turkey dinner there. It wasn’t so bad.
    This morning, he’d talked to his mother. She’d wanted him to come by and pick up his wafflestomper hiking boots, because it was supposed to snow soon. Plus she wanted him to take the two-feet-tall fake Christmas tree she’d been putting in his bedroom every December since he was a kid. It had white lights and multicolored ornaments. She was going to dig it out of the attic so he could have it in his bedroom at his grandmother’s. Obviously, she didn’t have much hope for a father-and-son Yuletide reunion.
    Ryan pulled into the driveway and parked behind his mother’s maroon Acura Sport Wagon. The house was a huge Victorian relic—with a big front porch and a turret. Inside, it was bright, graceful, and elegant. But Ryan had to agree with