Duke dodges past him and walks right up to the open door to investigate me. I reach my hand across the seat for him to sniff and he carefully nudges the top of my hand with his wet nose. Our family dog, Griff, died when I was thirteen and Dad was too heartbroken to let us get a new one. A dog is high on my list of priorities once I’m a fully functioning adult.
Mr. Watson doesn’t even look up at the sound of my voice. I can see him in Tucker. The shoulders and the shape of their lips. The way their noses gather into a square point at the end. In many ways, Mr. Watson looks like a deflated version of Tucker, but with a smattering of sun spots.
“Dad, why aren’t you in bed?” Tucker asks in a stern voice that sounds so foreign coming from him.
“I, uh, lost the s—key to the apartment,” he slurs. Mr. Watson pats down the front of his jeans and his back pockets like the keys might somehow miraculously appear.
He looks so much like Tucker. It almost makes me uncomfortable. Tall and broad, but softer. He’s overdue fora haircut, with curls gathering at the nape of his neck, and his skin is papery and translucent. I bet that before Tucker was as big as he is today, helping his dad into bed was much more of a task than he could easily handle.
I feel suddenly protective of younger Tucker, and I hate myself for being so venomous with him and quick to assume that the whole situation between us was about me entirely.
“You’re that Brewer boy,” he says. “The queer one.”
“That’s me,” I cheerfully admit. I’m plenty used to being the queer one.
“Good for you,” he says, giving me a hearty thumbs-up.
Tucker turns back to me and whispers, “Sorry.”
“Your daddy worked so hard for that business of his.” Mr. Watson shakes a finger in my direction. “Shame you won’t be the one to be taking it over.”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. That took a turn, but I’m quick to remind myself that Mr. Watson is an alcoholic and the last thing Tucker needs is me getting into a scuffle with his dad. “I’d run the whole thing into the ground.” Even though I could totally take over the family business if I wanted to, but yeah, sorry, my heart’s not in the construction biz. This hair is too good for a hard hat.
Sorry, Tucker mouths through a grimace, apologizing again. That’s all it takes for everything to get through my thick skull to my brain. It wasn’t me who Tucker was embarrassed of when we were younger. It wasn’t me who he didn’t want to be seen with during our group project.
I can’t believe I didn’t piece it together sooner, but I cansense his frazzled nerves over anyone seeing this side of him. Whoever Tucker brings into his life is committing to more than just him, and judging by the tension radiating from him, he knows it. And somehow, I take a little bit of pleasure in witnessing this. Not because I like to see Tucker suffer, but because seeing the most difficult corners of his life makes me feel closer to him. It makes me want to keep him close.
“Maybe one day, Tuck’ll turn this place into something,” he says. “My castle.” He gestures around to the run-down garage, with its broken gas pumps and cracked windows. Tucker catches his elbow before he trips.
I lean across the seat, toward the open passenger window, and give Duke a well-deserved scratch on the head. “All due respect, Mr. Watson, but I think Tucker is meant for much, much bigger things.”
Mr. Watson lets out a short, acerbic laugh.
I know that this guy is probably just fine when he’s sober, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to punch someone else’s dad like I do right now.
Tucker smiles tightly, pulling his dad toward the door. “Come on, Duke. Inside.” He looks up to me, and I can see the million thoughts passing just behind his eyes about what me meeting his dad might mean to him. Uncertainty. Discomfort. And even a little bit of relief. “Thanks for the ride,” he tells me.
“Anytime.”
Twenty-Four
On Saturday night, me, Hannah, Clem, Alex, and Kyle are all gathered around Kyle’s family’s dining room table.
Kyle looks over a clipboard. “Alex, baby, you did one last sweep for breakables? Did you get my mom’s framed photo of Nana on her wedding day? The one in the hallway bathroom.”
“Yes, for the tenth time,” Alex says. “Can I please start making those blue frozen drink thingies I found on Pinterest?”
Kyle sighs. “I don’t want us to blow through our ice supply too quickly. Once it’s out, it’s out.”
“We could run to the store,” says Hannah, her voice flat and bored.
“Not if you’ve even had a drop of alcohol,” says Kyle. “So if you plan on being the party mom, that’s on you.”
Clem reaches under the table to squeeze Hannah’s hand in an attempt to diffuse obvious irritation.
I raise my hand, which I can immediately tell Kyle greatly appreciates by the way he nods at me.
“Yes, Waylon.”
