Not about the past. Not yet. About small things. Sam’s grades. The new coffee place on Main Street. Whether the Rangers were ever going to get a decent goalie. It was strange, how easy it was. Like walking into a house you lived in a long time ago and finding the light switches without looking.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said one afternoon, out of nowhere. “I want you to know that. I’m not trying to get back together. I know what I did. I know there’s no fixing it.”
“I know,” I said.
“I just want to be his dad. However much you’ll let me.”
I watched Sam skate backward across the pond, his arms out, laughing at something one of the other kids yelled.
“It’s not about how much I let you anymore,” I said. “He’s sixteen. It’s about how much he lets you.”
