His flinch is almost imperceptible, but I know it bugs him that I think of my mom’s house as home. Not because there’s drama between them—my parents get along fine—but because he’s been suggesting I live with him for ages. Give Florida a shot. Visit again, at least.
I haven’t, but not because I don’t like my dad. He pays above and beyond what he owes in child support, calls once a week minimum, and gives me presents and cash on birthdays and holidays. He asks about my grades, my teachers, cross-country. He offers to help my mom in every way he can. The reasons I haven’t visited are my own: I’m a creature of habit, and I feel bad about leaving Mom on her own.
“You really don’t want to swing by the bar to grab a burger?”
“Maybe later?”
“For sure. I can’t wait for you to see it. Football season was a round-the-clock party. And now that baseball’s in full swing, we’ve got butts in chairs every night and all weekend. People visit Sugar Bay just to hang out at Blitz Brews. More and more often, I talk to customers who’ve come from Pensacola and Tallahassee. Last weekend, we had a crew in from Jacksonville.”
This might impress me if I knew how far away those places are from Sugar Bay. Before my dad moved to Florida, all I knew of the state was Disney World, the Seminole War, and Ernest Hemingway. My knowledge base is still pretty limited. “That’s cool, Dad.”
Up ahead, a SUGAR BAY WELCOMES YOU! sign points toward an approaching exit. The Ram trundles off the highway and onto a quiet street lined with tall palms. We travel a few blocks, and then the Gulf of Mexico announces itself. The sand’s sparkling white—it almost looks like snow—and the water’s deep turquoise. The sky is cobalt and cloudless.
Dad makes a left toward a stretch of high-rise hotels and apartment buildings, then reaches over to jostle my shoulder. “Hey, buddy, about the wholeDadthing…”
I glance his way “Yeah?”
“You’re practically a man now.”
My eighteenth birthday’s in three months. “Okay. And?”
“I was thinking…what if you call me by my name? You know, instead ofDad?”
I laugh—I can’t help it. “Why?”
“’Cause in Sugar Bay, I’m Davis Walker, owner of Blitz Brews. You’ve spent a lifetime with me as your old man, so this is probably hard to imagine, but around here, I’ve got to maintain a certain reputation.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, trying and failing to sand the mockery from my tone. “And a teenager calling youDadwill screw that up?”
He turns a grin on me. “I knew you’d get it.”
I swallow a snort. “Sure,Davis. Course I do.”
Stupid as I find his request, arguing during our first hour together is a bad idea, seeing as I’ll be living with him for the next two months. My mom has finally saved up enough to chase a Master of Science in Nursing, her dream for as long as I can remember. She needs space to focus on her coursework, and thanks to Dad, I can give it to her. That’s not the only reason Sugar Bay has become appealing, though. Eight weeks ago, I dug myself out of the rubble of a train-wreck breakup with the only girlfriend I’ve ever had, Whitney. Since then, engaging with her has been a fucking nightmare so, cowardly or not, I fled.
My dad—Davis—turns into the parking lot of a beachfront apartment complex. There are two buildings, ten floors each, with a courtyard in between. Sugar Bay Luxury Towers is way fancier than the little bungalow Mom and I share in Spokane.
“Home sweet home,” Dad says, pulling into a numbered space.
“It’s as nice as I remember,” I reply, because he feeds off accolades. He can afford to live in a luxury tower: He’s made it.
Since the last time I was here, he’s moved units. The one-bedroom he had originally was too small, so as soon as it became available, he snagged a two-bedroom with a balcony overlooking the gulf. The views are unreal. He’s been telling me that for literal years, and I’m sure it’s true, but what I’m really excited about is having my own room. When I last visited, I slept on the pull-out sofa.
We unload my bags, then head for the east tower. I’m trailing behind him when I spot a girl crossing the parking lot. She looksclose to my age, and she’s making her way toward the west tower. Her dark hair is a mass of shiny curls. She walks with confidence: spine straight, shoulders back, head high. She’s wearing a blue T-shirt with an indecipherable logo and denim cutoffs.
She disappears into the west tower, but not before dredging up the memory of another girl. Not Whitney, but someone I met the last night I spent in Sugar Bay three years ago, a blond so pretty, fourteen-year-old me thought he’d died and stumbled across an angel. She was crying at the pool under a full moon. I had no idea what was wrong, and I was young and imbecilic. I saw tears and wanted to run. But she looked so heartbroken sitting there by herself. This protective instinct kicked in; I needed to make sure she was okay.
We ended up hanging out until dawn.
She was my first kiss, and she set a high bar.
We never spoke again.
God, I haven’t thought about her in ages.
Dad and I reach the building’s entrance. I follow him in, lugging my backpack and suitcase, wondering if the pretty blonde still lives at the Towers.
Piper
