by Alexis Daria
But this wasn’t just any patient. This was his father. In his mind, their complicated history merged with the present moment, his awareness of his father’s body, his ability to visualize what was going on beneath the skin through touch and years of education. Gabe found the pain points and channeled his own energy into releasing them, which made it sound magical, but it was really just about his movements helping someone else move better. It was the thing that had drawn him to PT all those years ago while recovering from his knee injury. Gabe had been fascinated by the way the sports doctor had explained the connections in the body and how to release pain and tension, as well as how much better he felt and was able to move after what he’d initially called “torture sessions.” How could jabbing your fingers into a joint release swelling? He’d been determined to find out, and it had changed the course of his life.
The intersection of pain and movement, the absolute beauty of the human body’s inner workings, the ability to help people through touch, had set Gabe on this path.
“Ow,” his dad grumbled.
Gabe suppressed a smile. “Hurts?”
“You know it does.”
Now Gabe grinned. “Sorry. It’ll help in the long run, I promise.”
He explained what he was doing as he worked, suspecting that the steady stream of one-sided conversation would put his dad’s mind at ease. Some clients preferred quiet while they were worked on, others chatted up a storm to take their mind off the pain, or because they were worried, or lonely.
So Gabe talked, leaving gaps in the flow of words in case his father wanted to respond. And eventually, he did.
“How many hours have you put into this?” Esteban asked.
Gabe blew out a breath as he tried to think of an answer. “Oh, I don’t know. Thousands, probably.”
“¿Verdad?”
Was it his imagination, or did his dad sound impressed?
“At the beginning I was trying to learn everything as fast as I could, to get through my training in record time. I did as many sessions as I could fit into a day, on anyone who would let me.”
“That’s because you know how to work hard,” Esteban said, then added, “Ow. Carajo.”
“Sorry.”
Gabe replayed his father’s words in his head. You know how to work hard. They sounded like praise. Once, Gabe would have taken them as a dig, like he owed his work ethic to his father. But . . . maybe he did.
All those hours Gabe had put in at the store, stocking shelves, creating displays, prepping the bank deposits, and taking inventory. The endless tasks, on top of homework and baseball practice, had taught Gabe to focus his attention and manage his time, and had prepared him to run his own business when it came to it.
Or maybe Esteban was also just acknowledging that Gabe was a hard worker. He’d worked hard then, and now. Maybe his father did see that, had always seen that.
Back then, Esteban wouldn’t have said it out loud, so perhaps this was progress.
As Gabe worked on the tension his father held in his body, he thought about the responsibility Esteban had carried. And the worry. Now that Gabe worried about his niece and nephew, about his parents and their health, he could recognize how much worry must have been his father’s constant companion in those years.
There was a lot he could blame the man for, but he had to admit, his father had prepared him for adulthood well. He’d forced Gabe to sit beside him and learn how to manage the finances for the store, which had made Gabe feel more than comfortable when he was paying bills and doing payroll for his own business.
Gabe’s mind wandered to those early years of doing PT work, and he had a flash of remembered feeling—the sense of satisfaction he’d gotten after working on a patient, when they told him how much better they felt, as he noted their progress on his chart. He looked down at the light brown skin of his father’s shoulder, just a shade darker than his own hands, and remembered.
This was why he’d started. This was what it had always been about for him.
Doing the hands-on work, helping people one at a time. He opened the gym so he could help more people on his own terms, assisting them in living lives free from pain to be more present and happier in their own bodies.
But somewhere along the way he’d started spending more time in the office than at the treatment table. The needs of a growing business had distanced him from the physical work. No wonder he’d been so miserable and burned out.
Agility had gotten on the radar of celebrities, leading to more success, but they weren’t who the gym was for. Agility Gym hadn’t been designed with celebrities in mind, but for real people with real bodies and real pain, to help them increase their mobility, decrease pain, and improve the quality of their lives.
Even the location of the gym had been Powell’s idea. Establishing it in Santa Monica meant they’d have a certain kind of clientele. And while Gabe was grateful to celebs like Rocky Lim who’d put Agility on the map, they had access to all kinds of additional body help that regular people didn’t. And once celebs started frequenting a place, it changed.
Fuck. He’d changed.
Gabe wasn’t some celebrity trainer. He was a physical therapist. A health-care provider. Not a PT to the stars.
Without Agility and what it had become hanging around his neck, Gabe had an opportunity to shift course. He just had to be brave enough to go for it.
As he rotated his father’s arm, noting the range of motion, Esteban turned to Gabe and pinned him with a look.
“Tengo una pregunta,” Esteban said, and Gabe knew which question was coming. “¿Por qué?”
There could only be one thing that Why? referred to, but Gabe asked anyway. “Why what?”
“Why didn’t you come back? Until now.”
“I thought it was the only way,” Gabe said in a low voice. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. It wasn’t his typical defensive thought. Maybe he’d gotten those out of his system.
“The only way to what?” his father asked.
“To grow.”
A long moment passed before Esteban spoke again, switching into Spanish. “I was hard on you,” he admitted. “I thought I knew better, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how else to prepare you for life. It was how your grandfather raised me.”
Esteban rarely spoke about his own father. He’d died well before Gabe had been born, when Esteban had been a teenager in Mexico.
Gabe looked at his father’s body, at the minor scars, the signs of age. Life had been hard on this man. As a father, as the head of the household, as a small business owner, as an immigrant. Gabe had only one of those responsibilities, and he felt like he was drowning most of the time. Was that how his dad had felt? He must have, with two little kids at home, a wife, a store, employees, and customers. It would have been impossible to meet their needs and expectations 100 percent.
“I’ve talked to your mother,” Esteban went on. “We should’ve considered what you wanted, should’ve let you make more of your own choices, follow your own dreams. We realize now, there were other ways. But back then? We didn’t know. Lo siento, mijo.”
This was it. The thing Gabe had wanted for as long as he could remember. Acknowledgment and apology from his father.
But it didn’t heal him as much as he’d thought it would. There was no sense of instant satisfaction, no validation balm applied to his soul. He’d wanted to show his father he was wrong. Well, mission accomplished.
And so what?
Gabe had still lost nearly a decade with his father due to their anger and inability, or unwillingness, to see eye to eye. Granted, maybe Gabe had needed the distance in order to take ownership of his choices and grow up. The time apart meant he couldn’t blame his doubts or his failures on anyone but himself.
Yes, there’d been tension during his childhood. Raised voices and too much responsibility. But Gabe had been in his early twenties, technically an adult, when he’d decided estrangement was the only option.
And maybe
he’d been wrong.
“Why were you angry all the time when I visited?” he asked in a low voice.
Esteban sighed. “I was sad and worried, and I didn’t know how to show it. Nikki says it’s something called toxic masculinity.”
Gabe decided not to comment on that part. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course. You were three thousand miles away, all alone, and you barely knew how to do your own laundry.”
Okay, that much was true. But Gabe had known how to work hard. Thanks to his dad.
All this time, he’d thought his father didn’t care, that his family probably hadn’t even thought about him while he was gone. But that was stupid. He’d still thought about them all the time, even when he wasn’t in communication. Their presence in his life, in his memories, had never gone away. Of course it must have been the same for them.
Gabe tried to imagine having a kid. Sure, he’d want his child to work hard and know the value of his own skills, but he’d also want them to have it easier than he did. It would be a hard balance to strike, he could see that now. To pass on your core values—in the case of his father, those values were hard work and the importance of family—while still preparing them for life in the real world.
His parents had challenged what Gabe said he wanted to do, and he’d taken it to mean they didn’t think he was capable. But why would they have trusted him with as much as they had if they hadn’t believed in him? They’d wanted him to stay. For the store, yes, but if the store was a symbol of familial connection, it wasn’t just to keep him on hand for cheap labor. And if he’d really had as much confidence in his choices as he claimed to have, it wouldn’t have mattered whether they’d doubted him or not.
What if he was the one who doubted himself all along?
He thought of the final Celestial Destiny chat transcript he’d saved. Even though Michelle hadn’t known what Gabe was planning back then, she’d all but told him his way of thinking was flawed. At the time, Gabe hadn’t been able to see it.
“I understand it more now,” Gabe said slowly. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I stayed away so long. I won’t do that again.”
“Good,” Esteban said, as if it were that easy.
Maybe it was.
Gabe picked up the towel and wiped the lotion off his dad’s shoulder. “All done,” he said. “You can sit up when you’re ready. And we’ll put ice on you after dinner.”
Esteban swung his legs over the side of the table and sat up. He moved his arm experimentally. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Better?” Gabe asked.
“Sí. Se siente mejor.” There was surprise in his father’s tone too.
“I’ll show you some exercises to keep improving it,” Gabe said. “And I’ll get you some massage balls, a mat, and a foam roller.”
His dad side-eyed him. “¿Massage qué?”
Gabe stifled a laugh. “They’re like tennis balls,” he said. “You roll your muscles on them.”
“Hmm.” Esteban still looked skeptical, but he got to his feet. Then, to Gabe’s utter shock, he gave him a hug and said, “Gracias, mijo.”
Unlike the apology, the thanks was like a blast of warmth through Gabe’s chest. Was this what he’d been waiting for all this time? To feel like his dad valued him? Appreciated him for who he was?
Maybe Esteban hadn’t known how to show it. And maybe Gabe had been too wrapped up in his own fears of inadequacy and powerlessness to see the signs clearly.
“No problem, Pop.”
Esteban put his shirt back on, a little more easily than he’d taken it off.
Gabe packed up the table and put it away. When he went back to the kitchen, his father was pouring wine into glasses while his mother plated the food. Gabe helped her carry everything to the table. She’d cooked up a mouthwatering chicken and vegetables dish from whatever had been in the fridge. But there was something familiar about the smell . . .
Gabe glanced back at the counter and spotted an easily recognizable container.
“Mami, did you bring that adobo three thousand miles to California?”
“I knew you wouldn’t have it,” Norma said defensively. “Now, vamos a comer.”
They all sat down and dug in.
Gabe was only halfway through his first glass of wine when his father set down his fork and steepled his fingers. “We have more to catch up on,” he said. “Where do you want to start?”
Once, Gabe would have reacted defensively to the question, viewing it as a command. Now, he just set down his own fork and washed down the chicken with some wine. “Let’s start with the gym.”
He started at the beginning, telling the story mostly in Spanish, so his father could catch all the nuance, but switching to English when he didn’t know how to translate a word or phrase.
His mother wanted to know more about Agility, so Gabe pulled out his phone and showed her the website and Instagram account. She scrolled through the feed, exclaiming over the décor and the photos of Gabe, but Gabe felt his father’s watchful gaze on him.
“¿Y qué es el problema?” Esteban cut in. His arms were crossed over his chest in a pose Gabe knew well. He was in for an inquisition, although it didn’t scare him like it once would have.
“Why do you think there’s a problem?” Norma asked in alarm, looking up from the phone.
Esteban gestured toward Gabe with his chin. “Míralo.”
Norma looked at Gabe. Her mouth pinched in sympathy. “Sí, yo lo veo.”
Gabe fought the urge to touch his face or look in a mirror. What? What did they see?
Then he remembered the state of his hair and overgrown beard, and what his apartment had looked like when they’d arrived. It was pretty clear what they saw.
“Dime qué está pasando,” his father said, getting right to the point. “¿Qué fue la emergencia?”
No more beating around the bush. “I sold it,” Gabe blurted out. And he braced himself, for their disappointment, for the feeling of failure and disgrace.
Except it didn’t come.
“Okay.” Esteban nodded. “¿Por qué?”
His tone was reasonable. He was just asking why. But with the wisdom of age, Gabe knew that this simple question would have thrown him into a tailspin when he was younger. He would have gotten defensive, feeling like his dad was accusing him of something. Now, though, he could see that Esteban was just asking for more details.
So he gave them.
“It has to do with the real reason why I was in New York,” he began.
“Not for Michelle?” his mother asked, and this, Gabe knew, was going to hurt them more than the news about the gym, which they had no attachment to.
“Well, kind of. But not like that.”
He told them about the investment agreement and the expansion, about Fabian emailing Michelle, and Michelle insisting that Gabe come stay with her to work on the project. That meant he also had to admit that he’d never intended to come to the Bronx and that he’d been staying next door, sneaking around for days, before getting caught.
His mother looked scandalized, but Gabe was pretty sure his dad’s sudden coughing fit hid laughter.
“You came to New York to work with Michelle?” his mother clarified.
“Sí.”
Norma threw up her hands in disbelief. “¡Pero los condoms!”
Gabe rubbed his eyes. “Mami, please don’t talk about those anymore.”
“Pero no entiendo. Why did you need those if you were just working?”
Esteban cleared his throat and muttered, “No creo que solo estuvieran trabajando.”
He was right, they hadn’t only been working, but Gabe was still reluctant to admit that to his parents.
“But you are dating Michelle,” his mother said, hope in her voice. “Right?”
“Ah . . .” How the hell did he answer that? “Not quite.”
“Not quite?” Norma repeated, her voice edging toward shrill. “¿Qué es eso? Something for los jove
nes like hooking up or friends con benefits?”
Gabe choked on his wine. “Mami!”
“You think I don’t know about this stuff? I have ScreenFlix and chill.”
“Oh my god,” Gabe muttered, unable to believe how comfortable his parents were discussing this with him. When he’d been a teenager, the only times they’d mentioned sex had been to warn “Don’t get her pregnant!” whenever he had a girlfriend.
And that, more than anything, showed Gabe how much his parents had changed. He didn’t know how it happened or why. Maybe it was because he’d left, maybe it was because they were older. Or maybe, without the stress of their jobs and their children, having finally achieved the American Dream comfort level they’d worked so hard for, they’d been able to chill the fuck out.
Either way, these were people he could be a family with.
“I didn’t go to New York to date Michelle,” Gabe finally said. “I went to work with her on the launch campaign for the new location. We . . . I don’t know what to call what we were doing. But when I saw you,” he addressed his dad, “I didn’t want to talk about the gym yet.”
“So you put the blame on her,” his father said, shaking his head. “You made her pretend that whole thing”—he waved a hand, encompassing the events that had transpired—“so you could avoid talking to us, to me, about why you were really there.”
“I . . .” Gabe opened his mouth to dispute it, but his dad was right. He’d dragged Michelle into this ruse with him, rather than acting like a fucking adult and facing his dad with the truth.
“Yeah,” he finished, because his dad had hit the nail on the head.
Except for one thing. They hadn’t actually been pretending.
Esteban looked sad, but he nodded. “Yo entiendo.”
“How do you feel about her?” Norma broke in. “Because I know you used to—”
“The same,” Gabe muttered. “I feel the same about Michelle as I did—”
He stopped, because no, that wasn’t right. However he’d felt about her in their teens was a pale shadow to what he felt now.