Everyone Has One: Hour Two
Disclaimer: Fiction. Testing out serialized storytelling here. You’ll still get political content—but chapters of this story might start showing up now and then. Hope you’ll read along.
The morning was warm—one of those mid-May scorchers waiting in the wings.
We stepped off the porch. Dad paused, eyes closed, the sun spilling across his face. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I stood there, watching him. A tightness in my chest. The kind of ache you try to sleep away.
“The last time…” he said slowly. “Your sister figured June was a good time for her Day. Wrong hemisphere, though.”
He shaded his eyes. “I always wanted to go to Australia. Thought your mother and I might, someday.”
He looked at me, waiting.
I could’ve said a lot. Didn’t.
The silence stretched.
“She didn’t tell us until after,” I said after a moment.
He frowned. “Said it was too far. Too complicated.”
I waved him off. “It wasn’t just that.”
He turned toward me, studying.
“She wanted it to herself,” I said. “And she got it.”
He didn’t argue. Just looked down at the street.
After a moment: “She’s your sister.”
“And you’re her father,” I said. Meant as a reminder. Maybe a warning.
He stood there a moment, examining me. What did he see?
I looked away. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
He stepped off the porch and scanned the street. Large oaks arched over the sidewalks, their leaves fresh and full, unaware. Shadows pooled at the bases of red-brick houses with wide porches. In the distance: traffic. Sirens. Laughter from the park around the corner.
A good neighbourhood.
“I didn’t think you’d last in the country.”
I looked down at my shoes, then out at the street.
Long bike rides on tree-lined roads. Golden summers. Cicadas buzzing. Baseballs in the yard. Ice fishing. Shivering at the end of the driveway, waiting for the bus.
But that wasn’t the whole story.
Harsh words. Fists to noses. Never alone—but always solo. I fit. Just not right.
I shrugged. “The lack of pizza delivery sealed it.”
He chuckled. “So what’s the plan today? What kind of Day do you have lined up?”
“Well,” I said, walking to the van and popping the gate, “I was never one for early mornings…”
I gestured to the rods and tackle box. “But hey—better late than never?”
He looked at me, unreadable.
“You hate fishing.”
“Yeah. But I turned you down enough as a kid. Figured now’s as good a time as any.”
“You sure? What if you catch something?”
I squinted, remembering the time I cried when he chopped the head off the bass I caught at eight. Fish hadn’t tasted the same since.
“We can always throw them back.”
“Throw them back?” His brow arched. “Then what’s the point?”
“The sport of it?”
He snorted. “Is that how they do things now?”
He looked down at the tackle, then back at me. “Well… It’s your Day.”
He smiled—broad and familiar. “Ready when you are.”
We climbed into the van. I’d done my best to clean it the night before, but no amount of scrubbing could erase the dust and grime—the lived-in truth of a vehicle that carried kids.
“Careful on the curves.”
I shot him a look as I started the van.
“One time, Dad.” The engine rumbled. “One time.”
I eased out of the driveway, extra slow. At the end, I paused and triple-checked both ways. No traffic. I rolled onto the street.
“Alright, alright, Jack, I get it. Just go.”
I gave him a side-eye.
Early morning traffic was light. Saturdays were always easier. This wasn’t a major road—just a two-lane cut through homes and corner stores. Sidewalks too close to the curb. Lawns frayed at the edges. A street where kids weren’t allowed to play out front. Where dogs chased balls one last time. Where cats never made it home.
All so someone could shave two minutes off their commute.
We rode in silence at first. Dad watched the buildings as we passed.
“The world’s always changing,” he said, mostly to himself. “You don’t notice when you’re in it. Paint fades. Buildings go. Streetlights change.” He looked up at the skyline. “But when you’re dropped back in…” A pause. “You notice. You appreciate it more.” He turned back to the window. “Even if it’s only for a little while.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.
Then we hit traffic.
The sirens we’d heard earlier were closer now—just ahead. I eased forward, peeking around a big black SUV. Everything was backed up, though a bend in the road hid the worst of it. Nothing moved in either direction.
We sat there. The van idled. The silence stretched.
My leg bounced. Still no movement.
“It’ll clear up soon,” he said.
I flicked the signal.
Dad turned to me. “It’s fine,” he said, calm. “Just wait it out.”
“Not today.”
I dropped it into reverse. The guy behind us honked. Checked both ways. Three-point turn. Headed back.
“Now what?”
I ignored the glares in the mirror. “We find another way.”
He leaned back, arms folded. “Just like everyone else. We should’ve waited.”
“No time today, Dad. Life isn’t always about waiting.”
Up ahead, other cars started following suit.
“Sometimes it is,” he said. “Sometimes the right way’s the hard one.”
I turned onto a side street—cracked pavement, shady trees, red-brick homes with deep porches. I crept along.
“Sitting in traffic doesn’t seem like the hard one,” I said. “Seems like the hard way is doing something. Taking action.”
He grunted. “And in this case, that means rampaging through quiet streets?”
“Rampaging? Really? I’m doing thirty.” I tapped the speedometer. “And don’t think I haven’t seen you side-eyeing the gauge.”
He smiled. “Well… before I…” His nose wrinkled. “You did lose your—”
“Dad, that was over twenty years ago.”
“To you.”
My stomach clenched. Hands gripped the wheel.
Twenty years for me. Days for him.
I turned again—an alternate route forming like a recalculating GPS.
I caught him watching me.
He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“You never get lost.” He rubbed his mouth. “Remember that Cub Scout march? Navigation badge. Maps and compasses. Most kids were turned around halfway in.”
A smile crept over his face.
“But not you. Spread that map like you’d done it a hundred times. Knew every landmark. Chuck thought I was feeding you answers.” He looked over. “But I see it now. This is your place. I can tell. Every turn, you’re already adjusting.” He nodded at the road ahead. “Maybe it was good we got out of the traffic.”
I smiled, rubbing at my eye—a tightness in my throat.
The rest of the drive passed in silence.
When we reached the lot, I parked. Ahead, the riverside park stretched wide and green, laced with walking paths, benches, and picnic tables. Geese marched across the grass in slow, oblivious patrols.
Half a dozen fishermen lined the shore.
“Shoreline fishing, eh?” he said.
I shrugged. “No boat.”
He opened the door. “Fishing’s fishing.”
We grabbed the gear. He moved with a spring in his step, grin wide. I had to hustle to keep up. He wandered the shore, scanning the water—seeing things I never could.
We passed the first fisherman. He eyed us, tense. When we kept walking, he relaxed.
Dad didn’t slow. Rod over shoulder, tackle in hand, he moved past one empty patch after another, dismissing each.
At the end, he finally stopped. Stepped to the edge. Nodded. “This one.”
He opened the box. Smiled. “You just bought this,” he said.
“First and last time.”
He sifted through until he found the right lure.
A man approached from further down the shore. “That’s not a good spot,” he said. “You’re not going to catch anything.”
Dad nodded, smiled tightly. Rolled his eyes once the man looked away.
“I fish here every day,” the man said, stopping twenty feet off. He cast his line. “It’s not.”
“Okay,” Dad said, stretching his back and handing me the rod.
The man reeled in. Glanced over again. “Look, I’m not saying you should move.”
“We’re not here long,” I said. “Just a few minutes.”
He stilled. Eyes bounced—me, then Dad. His jaw shifted.
He knew.
A small nod. Almost to himself. Then he cast again, further this time.
Dad watched him drift. “I hate that.”
“Hate what?”
“That look. That pitying look.”
I shrugged. “People don’t know what to think.”
Dad adjusted his lure, inspecting the hook. “It’s better than the ones who ignore you. Treat you like a disease.”
I stepped to the water’s edge. Cast my line. It flopped maybe ten feet.
The fisherman chuckled.
Dad followed—smooth, practiced. His line flew deep.
I gave him a side-eye as I reeled in.
I hated this. Boring. Repetitive. And I never caught anything.
Maybe it’s because I’d never gotten that bite—the one that sells you—like the perfect drive, or when the bat connects just right.
All I’d ever done was cast, reel, repeat.
That’s why I always had something better to do when he asked.
My phone dinged.
Dad gave me a look.
I pulled it out. 9:55.
How had two hours already gone by?
Message from Brooklynn:
Where are you guys? Mom said you’d be here after breakfast. You know we want to see him too.
I squinted. Grip tightening.
“Everything okay?”
I nodded, typing a reply. “Yeah, Dad. Just a few more minutes of this, and we’ll head to Mom’s.”
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