Michael picked me up at eleven. When he saw me standing on the sidewalk in front of my building, his face moved through several expressions in the space of about two seconds — surprise, worry, something close to embarrassment he immediately tried to hide.
“Dad. Um. Maybe you want to change? It’s the Brookshire Country Club. They have a dress code.”
I patted his shoulder as I climbed into the passenger seat. “Don’t worry, son. I called ahead. They said a jacket was fine for lunch service.”
That was technically true. I had called. I simply hadn’t specified which jacket.
Michael’s jaw tightened, the way it always did when he was holding back something he didn’t feel he had the standing to say, but he let it go and didn’t push. We drove most of the way in silence, his hands gripping the wheel of his Toyota a little tighter than the traffic really called for. I could see him rehearsing conversations in his head, probably already preparing to defend his old man against whatever polite condescension was waiting for us.
