“Are you watching this?” he yelled as he hustled past me into the kitchen. “Gonna beat those Westwood weasels for the first time in forever.”

“Easy. Don’t jinx it.”

He jumped over the back of the couch and landed with a thud, two beers in one huge hand. “Done deal, baby.”

“Get a beer, why don’t you?”

He held one up to his mouth and emptied half of it, then let loose with a belch that rattled the windows. “Thanks. I think I’ll have two.” He was wearing a green tank top, red board shorts, and yellow flip-flops that matched the color of his hair. “I thought you were coming over to my place to watch this.”

“Forgot.”

“You forgot?”

I grunted in response.

The Aztecs threw the ball away four times in the last two minutes, which elicited a stream of profanity from Carter that would have cleared a locker room. But they managed to hit several free throws and hung on to win by four.

Carter stood, arms raised over his head, his fingers touching the ceiling. “I love beating those assholes.”

I walked into the kitchen and set my plate and empty beer bottle on the counter. “You on the team now? A uniform and everything?”

He brought his bottles to the kitchen. “Here’s a question. What the fuck is up your ass today?”

I dropped the bottles into the trash can beneath the sink. “Nothing.”

“Nothing is what a fat man leaves on his plate and what the ladies are yearning for when I’m done with them. But it is most definitely not what is bothering you.”

“That makes no sense.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

I did, but I wasn’t sure how to explain what was rattling around in my head.

I leaned on the counter. “Have I ever mentioned my father to you?”

His features softened, and he slid into a chair at the dining room table. “No, I don’t think so.”

That alone said so much about our friendship. I’d known Carter for fifteen years, and not once had he ever asked about my father. Not a single question. Somewhere along the road, he’d recognized that it wasn’t a subject I was comfortable talking about and he’d left it to me to broach the subject. He’d shown an enormous amount of patience.

“I don’t really know anything about him,” I said.

Carter shrugged. “I figured.”

“I mean, like nothing. No name, no location, nothing.”

He didn’t say anything, his face devoid of expression.

“Never really gave a shit, you know?” I said. “I had enough going on with Carolina. It was just the two of us, and I thought I didn’t miss what I didn’t have.”

Carter shifted in the chair and gave a slight nod.

“Figured if I ever ran into him, I’d just beat the shit out of him anyway, so it was better to not even bother.”

“Sounds about right.”

I flicked a stray bottle cap off the counter and into the sink. “So this woman shows up today

“What woman?”

“Just a woman who showed up while I was on the water.”

“Was she hot?”

I frowned at him. “Would you let me finish?”

“Okay.”

“She said she knows my father.”

He propped his elbow on the table and put his lantern-like jaw in his hand. “You believe her?” “Think so.”

“How does she know him?”

The insecurities that had plagued me for a lifetime came awake, and I couldn’t give him a completely truthful answer. “It’s complicated,” I said.

Carter didn’t miss a beat, letting me slide. “He wants to meet you?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what it is.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Said I’d let her know.” “And I assume you’re working on that?” “All day.” I hesitated. “I have no idea what to do.” He laughed. “You asking me for advice, Noah?” “I don’t know what the hell I’m asking. But I guess I want your opinion.”

“First off, I’m not exactly a great candidate for this question,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You know how I feel about my father.”

I did. He didn’t care for him. L. Martin Hamm was a Marine who failed miserably in trying to install Marine Corps discipline in his son. He’d taken that failure personally, declared his son a waste, and moved with Carter’s mother to Florida a week after Carter had finished high school. As far as I knew, they hadn’t spoken since.

“And I’m not sure my opinion will mean anything,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’ve never been in your situation,” he said. “Master Sergeant Hamm and I never got along, but he was always a presence when I was growing up. Like him or not, he was there. I didn’t have a choice in knowing him. You, it seems, have a choice.”

I nodded and stared out the kitchen window at the water. Choice was supposed to be a good thing, but I wasn’t buying it at the moment.

“That said, I’d think that if you believe this chick, then not meeting him might eat you up for a while,” he said. “Knowing that he really does exist.”

That exact idea had already worked me over since Darcy had announced her reasons for visiting me. “I know.”

“Nothing says you can’t beat the shit out of him when you meet him. You’re entitled.”

I figured the prison officials might see it differently, but didn’t say so.

“Are you curious?” he asked.

Anxiety pounded away in my gut. “Yeah. More than I want to be. But, yeah, I am.”

“Then just do it,” he said. “You don’t owe him anything. Don’t do it for him or for this chick. Do it for you. You can look him in the eye and walk away. It doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be. But don’t let it drive you crazy wondering.”

He was right, which wasn’t unusual. He knew me better than anyone and he was always honest with me. I valued that honesty, even if I didn’t always want to hear it. He saw things in me that I couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to see.

So I hated not telling Carter that there was more to be curious about than just this man’s identity. I felt guilty for initiating the conversation and only sharing half the story. But I wasn’t ready to pull the curtain all the way back on my life, even to my best friend.

Carter stood. “I think I’d wanna meet him. If it were me.”

“Why?”

“So he’d know that I knew who he was. So I could stand there, stare at him, and make him uncomfortable. I probably wouldn’t even say a word to him.” He paused, his intense, dark eyes fixing on me. “But I’m not you.”

He didn’t know how lucky he was.

SIX

I spent the next day poking around on the computer and at the library. Found some news articles on Russell Simington, but no photos. Nothing earth-shattering, but nothing that made me want to meet him either. As I was looking at those articles, I was also scanning my brain for any recall of my father. I came up empty and no closer to making a decision as to whether I’d join Darcy on the plane the following morning.

I didn’t disagree with anything Carter had suggested. It would eat away at me if I missed the opportunity to meet my father. But I’d gone nearly thirty years without knowing who the man was, and I felt like I’d done okay so far. Maybe I was kidding myself, though.

When I left the library, the sun was starting to move behind the water, the rain lying in wait. My time to make a decision was disappearing fast.

And I was going to be late for a date.

I went home and changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a Quiksilver button-down shirt and headed out into the evening.

I had the windows down in the Jeep as I drove south toward downtown. The remains of the day had receded into the dusky sky, leaving the air feeling crisp and clean. The sun was exploding into a kaleidoscope of purples and oranges to the west, flashing brightly as the ocean pulled it downward. I exited the freeway and curved around Lindbergh Field, not envying the pilots who had to land their planes while looking into the blinding sunset.

I went past the airport entrance and onto Harbor Island. The mile and a half long island had been created by the navy in the early 1960s when they dredged San Diego Bay to make it deep enough for the military ships arriving in port. The navy took the mud and sand from the bottom of the bay and turned it into this narrow strip of land that housed upscale hotels, restaurants, and marinas. Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, a seafood restaurant, sat at the western edge of the island, and I pulled into the parking lot. Liz was waiting out front.