The party is in full swing the next time I find Dad. He’s had the same beer bottle in his hand all afternoon. I catch him pouring most of it down the kitchen drain before throwing it in the recycle.
“Good turn out,” he says when he spots me.
“Half the neighborhood is here.” As I knew they would. I lean up against the counter. The kitchen is tiny, and it’s had people in and out of it most of the day. I’m glad to find him alone, as it’s been several weeks since I’ve really checked in on him.
“I told them it was all too much,” he says for the hundredth time.
“They got you your favorite cake.” This seems to make up for the number of intrusive people.
“Thank you for my gift.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, pecking at the array of snacks on the counter.
I got him a DVD box set of his favorite TV show. TheTrevino men have never had much use for gifts. We typically go with something useful or something small that will be enjoyed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”
I understand how hard my dad has worked to keep me fed and clothed. Whether it was overtime or showing up at school events. He’s done a lot for me, and I can now see it all through the lens of adulthood.
“You’ve been busy.”
It kills me. Dad can make excuses for me so easily.
“Isolde,” he says, and I prepare myself. “She’s a good client.”
I try not to smile, but I’m afraid I fail. Dad pushes his glasses up again, and I wonder what he sees.
“I worked a gig for her best friend.” I don’t talk much about my clients, but then again, I don’t normally bring them to family gatherings. “That gig led to this one.”
“Ah.” Dad nods. “Fujimori’s right?”
My mouth dries.
“Luis told me,” Dad explains.
He’s a city worker who’s kept his head down his whole life. It doesn’t mean he never understood the inner workings of this place. Of where our neighborhood stood in the scheme of things. How easy it was for people to fall into certain lines of work or pleasures.
I’m not sure if it was because of my mother’s religious influence or just some good natured part of him. Dad has a rosier view of the world.
My grief turned to bitterness. Dad let his crumble away and went about paying the bills.
I wanted more. I wanted justice, and I wanted retribution, and I think deep down I also wanted pain. Maybe I thought I deserved it, or maybe there was some sweet edge to it. So, like a madman, I tore through things.
I never told my dad that I went to work for the Irish. He dropped a hint one day, though, and I knew he knew.
Same with the Ghost. People connected to Marissa started disappearing. They talked about the man in the mask. His skill with a gun. We don’t talk about it. But when he glances at me, I see how he knows the truth deep down.
I’m a little bit of a disappointment to him. He loves me anyway.
When I told him I’d started my new business as a bodyguard, he seemed genuinely impressed. The same way he did anytime I came home with a new hobby or venture.
I’ve worked hard not just for myself. My dad’s got a pension, but I never want him to worry.
“I met Isolde first, actually.” For the first time in a while, I talk to him about something other than a family member or home renovation. “She hired me to watch over Ren Callahan.”
Dad hums under his breath, having heard this name before.
“Then Isolde needed help.” I stop talking.
I don’t mix my private and professional life, but the idea of sitting down and talking to my dad about everything hits me hard. What if I pulled up a chair in the kitchen and we ignored everyone while I told him about Cade? About how Isolde ran from him. How I’m slowly coming to terms with the idea of Hadrian Hallow as her friend. I could talk to him about living with her the past few weeks, and I’m wondering what life will be like when I have to move out.
