“Grand Pines Casino, just south of Maple Lake. I can meet you in the lobby when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there in thirty.” I hang up. My hand is shaking as I shove the phone back in my pocket.
“Brody? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad.” The words taste like failure. “He’s at a casino. Gambling again. I need to—” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend. “No, you should—Maya might need you. I promise, I’ll be back.”
“Brody—”
“Please.” I’m already backing away, already shutting down, the walls slamming into place like blast doors. “I’ll be back soon. We’ll talk then. I promise.”
I leave without looking back, so I don’t have to see that abandoned, left-in-the-starlight look I’ve seen before. This isn’t like Barcelona.
The drive to Grand Pines Casino is a blur of dark highway and my own spiraling thoughts. The heater blasts hot air that dries out my eyes. Oldies play on the radio, Elvis crooning “Viva Las Vegas,” and I turn it off because I can’t handle the irony.
My hands are tight on the steering wheel. Knuckles white.
I don’t know why I believed him when he said he’d be better.
Stupid.
The casino appears like a mirage in the darkness. Bright lights and neon signs advertising cheap buffets and loose slots, it glows with false promise. The parking lot is half empty on a Saturday night. Cars scattered across spaces marked with fading paint.
I park. Sit for a moment. Try to breathe.
Conrad’s words from Seattle echo: Pushing someone away because you’re scared doesn’t protect you. It just makes you alone.
But I’m not pushing anyone away. I’m just dealing with my father. Again. Like I always do. Alone. Because that’s how this works.
I get out of the car, the cold air biting, the wind clawing at my face. The casino entrance smells like cigarette smoke and hope that’s gone rancid—desperate. Inside, it’s worse. Stale air thick with smoke, faded carpets stained with use, the electronic chime of slot machines, flashing lights everywhere—reds and blues and golds—designed to disorient and excite and keep people gambling past the point of reason.
The security manager is waiting near the entrance. He looks tired, his hair thinning, deep lines across his face. He extends his hand.
“Mr. Kane. Thank you for coming.”
“Where is he?”
“Blackjack tables. Section C. We’ve asked him to stop playing, but he’s insisting he’s about to win it all back.”
Of course he is.
We weave through the casino floor. Past elderly people feeding quarters into slot machines like it’s their job. Past a bachelorette party laughing too loudly at a craps table. Past a man who looks like he’s been sitting at the same poker machine for three days straight.
And there, at a blackjack table with two other players who look deeply uncomfortable, is my father.
He looks terrible. Worse than at the hospital in Seattle. Rumpled suit jacket. Tie loosened and crooked. One arm still strapped with a sling. Hair uncombed. Face flushed—drunk, definitely drunk. His eyes have that manic brightness that means he’s convinced himself that the next hand will fix everything.
“Dad.”
He looks up. His face transforms—relief, joy, desperation all at once. “Brody! I knew you’d come. Listen, I just need a small loan. Tiny. Five thousand. I’m so close to breaking even. One more hand?—”
“How much does he owe?” I ask the manager, ignoring my father.
“Twelve thousand. Credit line he opened tonight using your name as reference.”
