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“What if he says yes?”
“Then we make sure he sees everything.” Don leans in again, his eyes going beady. “And babe, I mean everything.”
Chapter six
Celebration
Clint
Becca drives because she says I’m too twitchy. I tell her I’m not, then I spend the entire ride to Riverside trying to figure out how to sit still with swim trunks riding up under my jeans.
“Stop moving,” she says. “You’re making the whole car jittery.”
“I’m not moving. This car has jittered since 2019.”
She glances down at my lap. “Are you bunching?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The invitation said celebration of life-slash-pool party, which sounds casual until you try to dress for it. What does a person wear to meet his dead father’s surviving partner for the first time at a pool? A suit? Shorts? A respectful floral shirt and flip-flops?
I’m wearing dark jeans, a black button-up, boots, and swim trunks underneath. I’m prepared for either a respectful memorial or a cannonball contest. Becca has a green sundress over a pink bikini and gold hoops, all of which required a special trip to Burlington.
“You look good,” I say.
“I know.”
“Great. Never mind.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t hold.
We’ve been like this since the day I got the invite. Not bad, exactly. Not fighting. Just standing near some new crack neither of us has figured out how to step over.
Becca knows the basics. Dead rich father. Gay. Secret. Possible inheritance.
It all sounds impossible, and maybe that’s what’s got us back on edge. Maybe the thought of being rich is too big. Like broke is our glue. Or maybe my life is getting too damn gay.
Truly, it could be anything.
“So what’s the plan?” she asks.
“Go in, be polite, learn what I can, leave before anybody asks me to share a memory I don’t have.”
“And if they’re awful?”
“Then we leave faster.”
“And if they’re nice?”
She keeps her eyes on the road.
Awful, I can handle. Gives me something to push against. Rich people being cold, polished, condescending? Fine. I know what to do with being underestimated.
Nice is trickier. Nice makes you wonder what kind of person you are for resenting them.
“I don’t know.”
Becca nods. “We’ll wing it.”
