She nails a fist to her hip. “I told him to stay in my room.”
“Then he’s not a good listener. An unfortunate start to my day, and probably why I forgot to drop off the mail. It was distracting, finding a strange man in the apartment.”
“He’s not strange.”
“He’s not your type.”
“You don’t know anything about my type, Piper Nixon.”
“Point is, you’re so busy damning my flaws, you forget you’re not perfect.”
“You’re wrong,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “I’m painfully aware of my flaws. The difference between you and me is that I try to fix my mistakes. You revel in yours.”
She never eventriesto hear me.
“Thanks for the feedback. I’m off to my room now to revel in its messiness, my witch hair, and my barren bank account.”
She fires a retort at my retreating back. “I wish you’d grow up.”
“I will,” I shout, “when you learn to keep your boy toys out of common areas!”
For the second time today, Tati drives me to slam a door.
Henry
During the time it took to roll into my dad’s apartment, take the grand tour, and dump my bags in the room that’s mine forthe summer, Dad asked me about grabbing food at Blitz Brews approximately 1,229 times. So that’s where we’ve landed.
The sports bar is cool, I’ll give him that. The floor and ceiling are dark-stained wood, the barstools are black iron, and old wine barrels have been fashioned into high-top tables. Booths ring the perimeter, and there are at least a dozen mounted TVs broadcasting baseball, golf, and deep-sea fishing. The shelves behind the bar are stocked with more booze than I’ve ever seen—a rainbow of neon liquor.
Dad whacks my shoulder. “Badass, huh?”
“Yeah, it is.”
I like seeing him this way—gratified by this business he dreamed up, launched, and fostered. Back in Spokane, he worked in finance. He never seemed unhappy, but when he talked about his job, his eyes didn’t flicker with pride the way they’re doingnow.
He leads me to the bar and introduces me to Mateo, bartender and shift manager, who has shaggy black hair and sleeves of ink. While my dad ducks into his office, Mateo describes the day he was hired while switching one of the TVs from ESPN2 to ESPN3, mixing a pair of pink cocktails, and cashing out a tab.
“Davis is a great boss,” he says, putting a glass of soda in front of me. “He lets me work nights and weekends so I can take classes during the day.”
“What are you studying?” I’ve known what I want to do after high school for as long as I can remember, but I’m always curious about other peoples’ choices.
“Hospitality and tourism. I’m at Northwest Florida State.” He grabs a rag and wipes down the bar; he hasn’t stopped moving since Dad introduced us. “Bartending is a hell of a lot better than bussing tables or working at one of the family-centric tourist traps in this town. I spend my shifts chatting with customers and watching sports. Not a bad gig.”
Dad reappears, checking in with servers, shooting the shit with customers, gulping up attention like a video game avatar powering up. When he makes his way back to the bar, he asks Mateo for an IPA, then leads me to a vacant booth. While we wait for food—chicken wings and a giant soft pretzel with beer cheese—he lists a bunch of activities he wants us to do together this summer: golfing and snorkeling and fishing and beach volleyball. “We can rent dune buggies and take them out on the sand. And there’s a place a few miles from here that has trailsfor riding horses—I’ve been wanting to check it out.” He grins. “We’re gonna have a blast.”
Jesus H.
Back home, I spend a lot of time on my own. I have friends I see at school and buddies I see on the mountain during the winter. I have a text thread with Silas and Ricky, two guys I’ve been running cross-country with since middle school, but for the most part we just drop in training tips, run times, and expectations for upcoming meets. And of course there was Whitney. But mostly, I like flying solo. It’s daunting, all the together time Dad’s got penciled in. His intentions are good—he’s glowing as he goes on and on and on—but he’s overcompensating.
I fake enthusiasm as we finish our drinks.
Pushing the empty glasses to the table’s edge, Dad flags down a server, a redhead whose name tag says LANA, and asks for another beer. “Bring one for Henry too.”
My eyebrows rise almost as high as Lana’s. I hold up a hand. “I’m okay.”
“Come on,” Dad says. “Throw one back with me. We’re celebrating your arrival.”
“Yeah, I’ll just have another soda.”
