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Sacramento whizzes by, and soon we’re surrounded by more cars than we’ve seen in the entirety of our road trip. We stop for a pee break in Richmond, and I call my dad. It takes everything I have not to tell him where I am, and how close I am to finding his dad. And then it gets harder, because without me even bringing the topic up, for the first time ever he starts talking about his father.

“I hate the fucker so much, but I miss him too, you know?” he says.

“Uh, yeah. I get that,” I reply, but Dad misses the irony. Shocker.

“It’s like you’re missing a part of your body, and you get used to it until you don’t even notice not having it. I tell you what. I notice it now. It sucks something terrible,” he says.

“I can’t even imagine what that would have been like,” I deadpan.

“Nope. You can’t. That’s why I got all crazy on you, bud,” he says, still not getting me. “Sorry about that. That day you came up and told me about whatever that letter thing was…. I just … It’s like, I wanted to know but I didn’t want to know.”

“Sure.”

“He was my dad. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“I just wish, like, one time, you know … Before I, you know. I wish I could see him again.”

God, I hope so. “Yeah.”

He is quiet for a while. “Would you tell me?”

My heart pounds. “Tell you what?”

His voice gets soft and weak. “The letter you showed me. Is there more? You said there was more.”

I want to tell him everything. But I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. I feel like a part of my body was missing too, and now I have it back and I want it to stay. Also, I don’t want to lead him on. If I give my dad hope and then we never find his dad, I’d never be able to forgive myself.

“There were more letters, but they were unreadable. What do you want to know?”

He is quiet again. “Why didn’t Mom tell me?” he asks, almost to himself.

At first I think he means my mom, but then I realize he means his. “I have no idea.”

“And they got divorced.”

“Yup.”

“Jesus. You think it’s possible that he’s still —”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t.”

“Come home soon, okay? I can’t talk to your mom about this shit. I can talk to you.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Don’t wait too long. Really.”

A chill passes through me. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Love you, son.”

“Love you, Dad.”

The conversation makes it all the more clear to me: I have to find Grandpa in California. Before it’s too late. I have to. If I don’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.

We get back on the road, we scoot through Berkeley, and finally, majestic San Francisco appears before us.

The finish line. We’ve made it to the finish line.

The skyline shimmers ahead of us and to the right as we cross the Bay Bridge. A crisp cityscape of confident high-rises stares at us from the horizon, and off in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge sparkles like a fancy red earring on the city’s left ear.

As we enter the city, I struggle not to reveal the surprise I have for Aisha. Something I looked up on my phone. I tell her I’ll lead her where we’re going, and she seems dubious but finally relents and follows my directions. We park a block from Dolores Park, which is not that far from Turk’s place. Aisha says, “Where the hell are you taking me?” as we enter the park.

“A treat for the lady,” I say.

“Woman,” she says.

The game won’t start until four and it’s about three when we arrive. We quickly come across a group of adults practicing Tai Chi in unison. We watch from the back, and I’m amazed at the beauty of the scene, the San Francisco skyline in the distance, a row of pastel-colored Victorians behind the park, and right in front of us a slow, choreographed dance of Tai Chi done by many different kinds of bodies, people of infinite different colors and shapes.

“This, by the way, is not the treat. Not yet,” I say.

Aisha and I step into the back of the line and start doing what everyone else is doing. The moves look like slow-motion karate, with lots of chops and poses.

We lie down in the grass after Tai Chi. It’s a little chilly out, which surprises me. I figured since we were in California, it would be really warm, but when the wind picks up, I wish I was wearing more than a T-shirt.

Soon, I see a volleyball net being set up in the distance, and I ask Aisha to follow me. We approach a bunch of kids, all different skin tones, stretching and shaking out their legs and arms and greeting one another with hugs.

Aisha looks at me, raising an eyebrow. “Is this the treat?”

I nod. I found an LGBTQ youth pickup volleyball game on meetup.com. I figured it would make Aisha smile as widely as I’ve ever seen. But as we stand there, I feel a little bit like a father on the first day of kindergarten with my very shy daughter.

“Go on,” I say when I realize that she’s struggling to find the courage to go up to the other kids. I could play too, but this kind of feels like her thing, not mine. Finally she does go, and basically every pair of eyes in the area — girl, boy, trans — falls on her and follows her. I watch as she begins to notice it, and I see her begin to like it.

Another really gorgeous girl arrives. She isn’t as crazy hot as Aisha, but she’s muscular and tall, with spiked black hair and light brown skin, maybe a couple of years older than us. She hugs a few kids, and then she turns to Aisha and gives her a welcome fist bump. It’s like watching two goddesses connect. Like you expect lightning will strike or a band will start playing.

All the attention seems to loosen Aisha up; I see it in the way she holds her head high, the way she allows the other kids to circle her and how her face animates as she talks to them. She starts looking taller, and when I hear her melodic laughter, I know I’ve done a really good thing.

The game starts, and I recline on my elbows in the grass and watch as Aisha sets and spikes and even dives to save a point. She’s on the same team as the tall girl, and that’s clearly not fair. They are easily the two best players, and they team up on a couple of points that look almost professional. A few times her smile goes wide like I’d hoped. Aisha is finding her people.

After the first game — Aisha’s team wins, of course — the tall girl hugs Aisha. She actually lifts Aisha off the ground and spins her in a circle. Aisha hoots, and when the girl puts her down, the tall girl throws her arms around Aisha’s shoulders and looks into her eyes.

Then they kiss. On the mouth. Aisha tilts her face, and the other girl leans in and puts her hand on the back of Aisha’s head. Aisha doesn’t pull away. I swallow hard and look away. I pull up a tuft of grass and grind it between my thumb and forefinger until grass juice coats my hand.

The kiss ends and Aisha whispers something in the girl’s ear and jogs toward me. A dull ache pulses into my spine. Aisha gives me an exaggerated grin. She sneaks a look over her shoulder at her new friend, and then looks at me, her face lit up.

“What the what?” she whispers.

“You know you’re sexy,” I say. “You see how everyone had their eyes on you?”

She covers her mouth with her hand, like she’s demure, maybe. I snort.

Aisha waves her friend over and introduces me. Her name’s Brianna.

“Do you come here a lot?” I say, then wince because it sounds like I’m trying to pick her up.

She says, “Sometimes. It’s fun,” and I realize she’s nice but not interesting enough for Aisha, who would never say something as boring as that as an opener. Where are the bears dancing through a field of daisies? Where are the wolf psychopaths?

“Looks fun,” I say, feeling a bit more confident that this is not someone who Aisha will choose to replace me. She may be hot, but she’s not exactly a brain surgeon. When the silence gets awkward, I ask, “So are you in school?”