“He’s a bully, I don’t like him much. He used to call me Ball Boy. He’s the kind of kid who makes up names for people.”

“Maybe he’s just competitive.”

“With me? What’s he got to be competitive about?”

“I can think of some things,” Dad says. For a second I think he means Mabley, but then he says, “You’re not a bad player yourself.” The waiter comes, and Dad asks for the check. He takes his wallet out and puts it on the table; he’s got all these receipts bursting out of it, and English money and different kinds of coins—it takes him a while to find a twenty-dollar bill.

“Are you serious about coming to London?” he asks.

My plate is sticky with maple syrup; there’s a bit of bacon left over, which I drag through the stickiness before eating. So we’re finally having the conversation.

“Do you want me to come?” I ask, without looking up.

“Of course I want you. It’s been a hard six months for me. A lot of adjustments, too much work. I’ve missed you.” Then he says, “I guess it’s been harder for you.”

“It’s been okay,” I say.

Then the waiter returns, and Dad pays him, adding another receipt to all the pieces of paper in his wallet. We unlock our bikes and ride to the park. It’s about fifteen blocks away—you can tell, because the streets in this neighborhood are named after numbers and letters. We just have to get to 44th and Avenue G. It’s like a simple math problem. Meanwhile the sun has climbed over the treetops, it’s almost noon. I can feel the heat on the back of my neck.

“What would Mom do if I came to London?” I say. “Would she come, too?”

“You can ask her.” He’s pedaling beside me, the roads are still empty, there’s just the sound of my chain going around (it got a little rusty in the shed) and sometimes a nut or twig cracking under one of our tires.

“Isn’t that something you should talk to her about?”

He slows down for a moment, and I coast next to him. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” he says. Then we both drift to a stop. “The truth is, Ben, I don’t want you to get your hopes up about anything like that. You’re old enough now . . .” but he interrupts himself. “Nobody’s ever really old enough for this. I know I’m not. I guess when something like this happens, you realize that your parents are just . . . blundering people, too. But I want you to feel that you have choices to make, that it’s not just other people telling you what to do.”

“That’s not really what it feels like,” I tell him.

“I mean, it’s fine for you to think, at a certain point, I have to protect my own interests. I have to live my own life. My parents’ problems are not my problems anymore. Am I making any sense?”