The slowest of smiles, the most agonizing of waits. “Okay,” he says eventually, his voice going gravelly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
16.
Joel
I did have plans actually: shivering in Doug’s back garden with the rest of my family, watching two-thirds of his fireworks fail to achieve lift-off. But I’d been thinking of canceling anyway. I’m fairly exhausted after a few sleep-scant nights. Plus my dream about Dad has pretty much floored me. I’ve not been able to forget it, have been scouring every photo I have of us together. Rereading messages on my phone with tears in my eyes, like you do when someone’s died.
I think back to it now.You’re not even my son! I’m not even your father!
It’s just not the kind of thing you say off the cuff to hurt someone. I’ve got plenty of other shortcomings he could choose from to do that.
Which can only mean there must be something in it.
I need to find out more about what I foresaw that night. But asking Dad outright? The sheer gravity of that conversation just doesn’t feel viable. Not yet, anyway. I need to go to his house while he’s out, I think. Uncover the truth for myself.
•••
I meet Callie out front ten minutes later. The early-November air is frost-filled and muddled with stars, the moon halogen-bright. It lends a strange midsummer quality to a sky already ablaze.
There’s nothing to suggest that spending this evening with Callie is a date, I remind myself. We’re just neighbors, off to enjoy the fireworks.Exactly as I used to with Steve and Hayley. A tradition, platonic, no strings.
We set off toward the river. Callie’s face is parceled between the gray woolen hat pulled down low over her head and the soft red scarf she’s coiled up to her chin. Our hands are stuffed into our pockets, shoulders occasionally bumping.
“So how long have you been seeing Melissa?” She sounds genuinely curious. Which I suppose you would be if you’d met Melissa.
I laugh uncomfortably. “That’s... not quite as it seems.”
I feel her look at me. “No?”
“I’m not sure I can explain. Or I’m not sure I want to.”
“Why not?”
“You might think worse of me.”
We walk a few more paces.
“Friends with benefits?” she guesses.
“Yep.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“It’s not good.”
“But life’s not perfect.”
“No,” I agree, thinking,Ain’t that the truth.
Above our heads, a boom, then a waterfall of light that turns us temporarily Technicolor.
•••
A subtle hum of music leads us to Dot and the water-skiers by the boathouse in the country park. There’s an impeccably organized drinks table, and a health-and-safety-compliant bonfire in an incinerator identical to the one my dad has for his garden-leaf mulch. It’s been a while since I’ve attended a party with people other than my family. But there’s something charming about the wholesomeness of this. The man toasting marshmallows, the parade of people carrying baked potatoes back and forth. The children swooping sparklers through the air.
Dot flings her arms around me when we arrive. She’s rocking an early-sixties vibe, all lacquered lashes and back-combed hair. Her coat looks slightly military, her jewelry vintage.
Planting a kiss on my left cheek, she presses a cup of something into my hands. “Hello, Customer. I knew it.”
