Darcy simply observes from the couch, only there for emotional support. And my dad… he listens. He’s always been a great listener—always been there when I needed to talk something out.
I tell him about the band, the tour, about the family I’ve met and made with Young Decay. He asks about the cities we’ve traveled to and if I’ve met anyone—a question I avoid at all costs.
His most curious questions come, though, when he asks about my sobriety. I knew he would never judge me, never push me. Especially now that I’ve actually sought help, now that the band knows and realizes how bad things became for me.
And when the tears drip down my cheeks as I’m apologizing to him, he comes around the table and hugs me.
“What do we say we take our boards out?” he asks once he releases me. “Darcy, do you surf?”
Darcy chuckles. “I was raised with one foot in the ocean,” they reply. “Count me in.”
I smile at him. “I have the perfect place for us to go, too.”
“What’s wrong with our usual?” he asks.
“I think you’ll like this place better.”
My dad still drives his old station wagon. How it’s still running, I have no fucking clue. However, he keeps it tuned,keeps it clean. I don’t think he’d know who he was without the damn thing.
I pull up the GPS app on my phone and type in the address where I want him to go. The entire way, he plays the old grunge mixtape that I made for him when I was ten, and Darcy laughs as we both sing along.
“Where are you taking us?” he asks as we pull off onto a beachfront side road.
“You’ll see. It’s just down here,” I say, sitting up.
The GPS tells us to go another eight-hundred feet, and when we pull up to the modern, black and brown beachfront bungalow, my dad whistles.
“Fancy pants,” he teases me. “Is this your place?”
Yet, I simply smile and open my door.
Darcy gives me the key, and I open the door for my dad.
“Wow. This is nice, Bonnie,” he says, taking a look around the place. “Right on the beach, too? The water is fifty feet out from the back deck.”
I chuckle. “High tide, yeah,” I say.
“Band is doing well, then,” he assumes.
I nod. “With the tour, the album sales… yeah. It’s… comfortable. Nothing wild, but steady.”
“Steady is good,” he says. “Steady keeps your head on straight.”
Another laugh leaves me as I take the keys from my pocket and slap them into his hand.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“It’s yours.”
He balks slightly, brows narrowing. “What? No, I thought this was your new house.”
I scoff and take a step back, hands going into the pockets of my jacket. “I was a piece of shit, Dad,” I say, blinking back tears. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I did, for not coming home, fornever even speaking to her. I can’t begin to apologize for the way I treated you. And getting you out of that trailer isn’t… it’ll never make up for it. This, though… this place…” I pause, peering around the open room. “You deserve this place.”
“Bonnie, I can’t—”
“Your dream was always to get us out of the trailer park and into a beachfront house, and you worked your ass off trying. I know when Mom got sick, every ounce of savings went into her medical bills.”
“Bonnie, these aren’t things you should be worrying about,” he insists. “I’m fine where I am. You keep this place.”
