He gives Lana aCan you believe this kid?look, then winks at me. “It’s cool, Henry.”
Lana’s waiting, amused. Dad’s pushing. And I’m embarrassed. I’m not about tothrow one backwith my father.
“No thanks,Davis.” I smile at Lana. “I’m good with soda.”
She heads for the bar, probably glad to escape.
Dad leans in. Quietly, he says, “What difference will one beer make?”
“To your liquor license? You tell me.”
He huffs. “Like you don’t drink with your friends in Spokane.”
“I don’t.”
“When I was your age—”
“When you were my age, you weren’t dreaming about four years at West Point. If I go down for underage drinking, I’ll have to kiss my future goodbye.”
He gives a dry laugh. “That’s dramatic.”
“No, it isn’t.” The couple sitting nearest our booth turns to look. I’m not interested in having it out with my dad in front of an audience, but I’m not about to let a thirty-six-year-old man pressure me into boozing. I lower my voice. “I don’t want to drink. Especially not with you—my father.”
Lana returns, placing his beer and my soda on the table. Once she’s moved on, Dad takes a pull from his glass and, more reticent now, says, “If my old man had offered me a drink when I was in high school, there’s not a chance in hell I would’ve turned it down.”
He was wild in high school. And college. I wasn’t conceived by way of sensible choices and responsible behavior. “No shit,” I say, indulging him.
He smiles, chagrined. “I have a lot of respect for you, Henry. You know that, right?”
Cool Davis is kind of a douche, but I like my dad when he’s like this: open, earnest, real.
“I’m serious, buddy,” he goes on. “You’ve got convictions. The convictions of a monk, but still.”
I crack a smile. “I know what I want, that’s all.”
“Your mom’s done a good job bringing you up. You’re a lucky kid.” His expression goes so wistful, I’m worried he’s about to tear up. His reputation as bar owner and monster truck driver and IPA connoisseur is headed for the shitter if he doesn’t pull himself together.
“Yeah, I am,” I say, trying to help him regain his footing. “My mom rocks, and I get to spend the next couple months with my dad, hanging out at his kick-ass sports bar.”
He sniffs, then laughs, then downs what’s left of his beer.
Lana brings food, and we manage to get through the meal without any more weirdness.
Maybe I’ll survive this summer after all.
Piper
The best thing about Sugar Bay Luxury Towers is the pool.
It sits in the courtyard between the east and west towers, andit’s huge and extravagant and rarely in use, especially this late at night. With the exception of Sugar Bay Marine Conservation Park, it’s my favorite hideaway.
I’ve brought a handful of cotton balls, nail polish remover, and a bottle of polish with me. Tati hates when I give myself manicures in the apartment because shefeels like she’s going to asphyxiate, so I’ve taken to doing my nails poolside. It’s kind of nice, particularly after we’ve argued. The fresh air helps purge her anal-retentive negativity from my system.
I’m sitting on the paved deck with my legs dangling in the cool water, stripping my nails of their baby-pink polish, when a boy around my age intrudes on my solitude. He chooses a chair across the pool from where I’m sitting, one beneath a tall solar-powered lamppost. He glances my way for half a second before opening the book he’s brought.
Interesting. When I was blond, I held guys’ unabashed attention.
My curiosity is piqued, but I go on painting my nails with two coats of teal polish, allowing myself an occasional peek. He’s got his nose buried deep in that book, a massive tome with a title I can’t make out. His hair is wavy and chestnut, his brows thick, his jaw square. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with black athletic shorts and Pumas. He squints as he reads in the crap light, carving a horizontal line of concentration across his forehead.
