Fighter

B’s not looking so good. Black eye, swollen lip, bloody bruises on (both) his chin(s). He’ll tell you he got into a fight with some Sox fans – the trust is far less exciting. Because it is so, I’ll keep his secret for him… at least for the purpose of this story.

Jess’s rehearsal dinner was tonight. Following the beautiful practice ceremony (can’t wait for the real thing!), the party and families were to drive to a nearby restaurant to get the real party started. I traveled with my parents but, not being the driver, made it to the restaurant’s doorway where some folks were smoking before my father had even got out of the car.

As B emerged, the valet said something – or did something – and was giving him a hard time.

I’m not sure it was a commotion, but it was noticeable. So noticeable, in fact, that the burly man smoking beside me gave me a nudge and said, “Wow, what a fool that valet is. I wouldn’t mess with that guy – look at his face!”

Gulp. “Yea,” I said after a long pause. “That’s my dad.”