“Yeah.”
Hopper’s smile is genuine, I think, but unsteady.
“I wish I’d had it in me to try again,” he says, turning onto my street, even though I had yet to give him a single direction. “Liam would have been such a good dad.”
I’m a detective with the Austin Police Department. Ishouldask how he got my address. I wonder for a brief moment if he knows who I am, but I discard that theory immediately.
Hopper’s way too easy to read. If he had any clue, there’d be no hiding it.
I decide I’m not gonna ask a question when I don’t know if I want the answer.
“I’m sure you both would’ve been great dads,” I say instead, and not just to be kind.
It’s weird, sitting next to the man responsible for half of my DNA, feeling thisachefor him. I would never trade the man who raised me for anything, yet Hopper feels like the piece missing at the center of me.
I’ve wondered so many times over the years what it’d be like to tell him, and each time, I’m that kid standing on a high dive, one foot out, trying to be brave. Invariably, I’m also the kid who chickens out and has to climb down past all the other kids.
I can’t even begin to imagine the conversation I’d have with my parents.
Hopper pulls into the space right next to my old Outback and puts the car in Park. The difference between Eleanor and Mav’s high-performance, six-figure machine—the two lifestyles, really—could not be more stark.
For one, I’m sure Maverick bought his vehicle from an exclusive dealership, not from a lesbian who was divesting herself of all her worldly goods to hike all of the great American trails.
“How did you end up at the fountain tonight?” Hopper asks, pulling me back to the present.
“A very surreal, very disturbing day at the office.” I shudder. “Needed to shake it off by going on a run, getting some tacos, and then visiting my favorite statues.”
“A bad case?” he asks, leaning in.
“Uh…yeah. Two men died ugly in the process of attempting something heinous.” I lift a shoulder, going for casual. “I won’tpretend that I feel bad when shitty people get what’s coming to them, but it still fucks with my head.”
“Conundrum.” He sneaks a look over at me. “You know those statues are mine, right?”
I dip my chin and smile. Busted.
“You started them the summer I volunteered at the camp. I’m familiar with all of your work.”
“That’s right.” He hums to himself. “You know my paintings.”
He’s oddly shy about this fact, and that little kid in me edges his way to the end of the diving board. One toe poised in the air.
I know every public work you’ve ever produced because I’m your son.
Adrenaline spikes in my chest, and I step back.
Scrambling for a new direction, I think about the print I have framed over my toilet and send him a too-large grin. “I also know where you got your name from.”
He taps his chin, amused. “Most people assume it’s because I bounce a lot.”
I shake my head. “Edward Hopper. I see his influence.” I’m quick to add, “Not that you copy him. The minor in art history helps me identify your influences, plus the parts that are just you.”
Hopper stills and sends me a searching look before saying, “His paintings always felt so solitary, which is how I felt when I first started painting.”
He looks out the window, off into the distance. I sit in silence with him.
Finally, he sends me the saddest smile, murmuring, “The loneliest little atom in the whole world.”
My heart breaks on that simple sentence.
