Page 26 of Only Lovers in the Building

“Why?” she asked.

“Wasn’t invited,” he said coolly. “This leads me to my question. Is your dad @TheSaint on social media? He comments on most of your posts.”

“Not anymore. I blocked him.”

“That’s going to make for an awkward Father’s Day.”

“I had no choice,” Lily said. “He read my posts on BookTap the other day and demanded to know what I was up to for the summer. I had to defend my life choices, cite case law and everything.”

Ben picked up his phone, opened the app, and found her dad’s profile. “I see he’s read every book by Barack and Michelle.”

“Don’t forget every memoir written by a supreme court justice,” Lily added.

Ben kept scrolling. “Rich Dad, Poor Dad? How to Win Friends and Influence People, Retire Rich . . .”

“I know! It’s embarrassing!”

“He won’t be joining our discussion of Blurred Lines, I’m guessing.”

“He would sooner die.”

“I’m going to follow him,” Ben said. “To keep an eye on his reading list.”

“Please don’t troll him! His ego can’t stand it.”

Ben set the phone down. “How did he react to the news about your job?”

“He had none.”

“In other words, you didn’t tell him.”

“Correct.” Lily kicked her feet in the water. If anything, this conversation was drawing out her daddy issues, not Ben’s. It was embarrassing, at her age, to admit she still yearned for her father’s approval. Yves Lyon was dubbed The Saint, after the patron saint of lawyers, by his peers and the voters of his district alike. Compared to his star-spangled legal career, hers was a flop. At her age, he’d won his first election. She loved the law, was good at it, yet she’d never found her niche. She’d stumbled into corporate by default. Not a day went by when she didn’t think of this.

“Let’s drop this,” he said. “Judge Lyon has no jurisdiction on us. But if you ever want to talk, knock on my door, anytime, night or day.”

He was ready to wrap up their Q and A, but she still had more questions than answers. “Hold on. Back to your dad,” she said. “What’s going on there?”

“Well, he’s dead, for one thing. I don’t have to worry what he thinks.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.”

He waved away her condolences. “Don’t be. You can’t lose what you never had.”

Lily studied him closely, taking in the damp dark hair, the angled nose, the sharp jaw. In the photos she’d seen of the great Sabato Romero, the poet was well into middle age. However, there was no denying the resemblance between father and son.

“I have something to tell you,” Ben said solemnly. His gaze was lost in the water.

“Yes?”

“I’ve finished Blurred Lines.”

“What?!”

“Read it last night. I was done with work earlier than expected and got bored.”

“I’ll finish it today,” Lily promised.

“Easy!” he teased, as if she were a spirited horse. “Go at your own pace. This isn’t a competition.”