A buzzing erupts from beside my mom, and she pulls back to glance down at her phone on the table beside the couch. Her nose scrunches, eyes narrowing as she grabs it and opens the notification. “Leo,” she says, turning toward my dad. “A car just pulled into the driveway. Some kind of old truck. There is a board in the back. Are you expecting someone?”
My father scrambles back from us, standing abruptly as his eyes go wide. “Fuck. Shit.”
He walks into the dining room, pulling the curtains aside to look out the large bay window at the front of the house before returning. “It’s Weston.”
“Oh?” Mom asks. “Oh. Shit. That was today, wasn’t it?”
“Fucking apparently,” he mutters. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he nods as his thumb scrolls over the screen. “Yep. Yep. I have about seven fucking missed calls from Carter. I can’t believe I forgot to turn my phone off silent when I woke up this morning.”
Mom shrugs. “You were preoccupied.”
I don’t even want to know what she means by that.
Dad bends over the couch, pressing his lips against my forehead. “I’m so sorry, Sugar. Let me go take care of this. I’ll get him a hotel for the weekend, and we can figure the rest out on Monday. I’ll be right back.”
“No, wait...” I grab his arm before he can walk away. “What’s going on? Who’s Weston?”
The name sounds so familiar, like someone Ishouldknow, but I can’t place a face in my mind.
“Carter and Penelope’s foster son,” Mom says quietly. “I think you only met him once, years ago.”
“The kid who went to prison?” I rear back, head swiveling between my parents.
“He never went to prison,” Dad counters. “County jail. He’s out now.”
“Still...” I swallow, forcing the accusation out of my voice. I am not in a position to be doling out judgment right now. “What did he do?”
“We don’t know. The court records are sealed because he was a minor, and Carter and Penelope aren’t comfortable sharing details on his behalf. All we know is his charges were lowered to a misdemeanor, and he was released with time served.”
Dad nods, but the way he’s chewing on his inner cheek makes me question if he does know more.
“He was on the fast track to professional surfing before everything went down, and he’s been struggling since. I agreed to mentor him for the summer and see if I can get him back to a competitive level. I offered up the guesthouse.” He nods toward our back property. “And he’s going to be working at Heathen’s. But I agreed to all of this before I knew you were coming home, so...”
So I came along and wrecked everyone’s plans.
I don’t know this kid, but regardless of what he did, he was a minor when it happened. I know he ended up with Carter and Penelope after being removed from an abusive home. I know he lost his mother when he was a teen. If he was truly as dedicated to surfing as my father made it sound, this opportunity is probably life-changing for him.
Who the hell am I to take it away?
“It’s okay,” I say. “Let him stay. I don’t want to be the reason you send him packing before he’s even had a chance.”
“Sugar, after what’s happened...” He squeezes my hand. “I understand if you’re not comfortable having a stranger around the house. At the very least, I can find someplace else for him to stay.”
“You wouldn’t have offered the guesthouse if you didn’t trust him. You wouldn’t let anyone that close to Mom unless you thought she’d be safe. Plus, Carter and Penelope wouldn’t still be taking care of him if they didn’t love him. I trust their judgment. I trust yours. I’ll be fine.”
“Fine isn’t good enough, Willow,” he counters. “I want you happy.”
I shrug. “I think it might be a while before I’m happy again, but that doesn’t have anything to do with you or the surfer you're mentoring.”
He lets out a defeated sigh.
I know that’s a terrible thing to hear, but it’s the truth.
Dad looks at my mom, question written in his gaze. She nods, and he returns it with his own. A resigned, heavy understanding settles over the three of us. They know the truth, I’ve made my decision, and now all we’re faced with is the courses of action that follow.
There isn’t anything left to say, but my dad hovers in the center of the room because I’m sure he’s feeling the same way I am. Nothing feels resolved. Nothing feels better. The bulk of the pain is yet to come, but there’s nothing that can be done about it now.
“You should probably go greet him.” I nod toward the front of the house. “Help him get settled in.”
