Hemingway's fingers curled around hers, happily accepting this little gesture and letting it help keep him focused on the present moment. It had been a horrible conversation, a depressing experience all round, but he knew that he shouldn't let his son's attitude knock him back in the progress he'd made so far.
He smiled despite himself, painting a mental image of what he imagined spandex would look like on her. "I think I would love it, yeah," he drawled cheekily.
For once in his damn life, he listened. He heard her out, he let her explain things to him in a way he hadn't really considered. It was strange how obvious it could be, and yet he'd been blind to it, automatically going for self-blame and self-hate. It had been his automatic reaction for far too long.
"No... no, he didn't ask. He asked about Amy when he was drunk, but... no," he admitted, feeling his shoulders sag and slump a little. "I told him he could speak to the doctor first, and I had been going to say he could sort of come along and supervise me with it, for want of a better word," he admitted. He considered her words, and they spoke to him. Just for a split second he could see himself through her eyes. Just a quick flash of an image before it disappeared again, but it was a start.
"Yeah. You know, it- it was my job to raise him better, but- but I know it wasn't me exactly, it's just... it's frustrating."