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I flopped onto my back on the mattress. “Unfortunately. I’d talk about it if I could, but let’s just say you’ll see enough about it on the news in no time.”
“You staying safe?” Dad asked.
I nodded. “Always, Dad. I’m always safe with my job the way it is.”
Mom sighed. “I’m so proud of you, but I wish you would’ve picked a safer concentration as a lawyer. I swear, you and your sister have always been risk-takers.”
Dad snorted. “They get that from me.”
I heard Mom pop Dad on the outside of his head, and I started giggling. The sound of their kisses caused me to pull the phone away from my ear, and as they had their moment I wondered if it was something I’d ever find for myself. Someone who supported me and loved me, no matter what I did for work. Someone who could call me on my bullshit while still tolerating the rest of my shit. My parents had a beautiful marriage; a foundation of support and love that most couples didn’t have nowadays.
Then, Mom’s voice sounded again. “Are you working next weekend?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Depends on what this week brings me with work. Why? What’s up?”
“Well,” Dad said, “we thought about having you and Em over for a cookout Sunday evening.”
“Oh! Yeah! I’ll be able to make that. Even if I have to work, Sunday evening won’t be an issue.”
“Wonderful,” Mom said, “is there anything specific you’d like to eat?”
I shook my head. “Not that I can think of. You know I love Dad’s grill-roasted butterbeans.”
I heard Dad’s smile as he spoke. “You know that’s already on the menu.”
“Oh, oh, oh, do you know what we should try, Clyde?” Mom asked as she slapped his shoulder over and over again. “Those butterswim biscuits I found on TikTok the other day.”
I blinked. “You use TikTok?”
“Oh, you should’ve seen these things,” Mom said, “they looked absolutely amazing. Three ingredients for the dough, melted butter on top, and into the oven in a cast-iron skillet. I could whip up some honey butter and--”
I sat up in bed. “Yes to all of that. Yes, yes, and more yes.”
And as Dad started talking about all of the other things he’d grill out for our Sunday feast, my phone lit up with a text message.
From my sister.
Emily: Has Dad called you this evening?
My parents continued talking with one another as if they didn’t have me on the phone while I texted her back.
Me: I’m talking with him now. Did he call you, too?
Emily: Yeah, that’s weird, right? Do you think that’s weird? Or am I being paranoid?
“We could also splurge a bit and get some shrimp, if the grocery store is stocked,” Mom said.
“You know what we haven’t done in a while?” Dad asked. “A nice shrimp boil. We should do one of those.”
“We don’t have the stock pot to do one of those.”
“I mean, we wouldn’t have to do one for the whole neighborhood, Claudia. Just one for the four of us.”
Me: No, you’re not being paranoid. It’s weird.
As my parents continued to rattle on, the feeling of lead settled in my gut. Something wasn’t right. Something was clearly bugging my father. And yet, I had no idea how to prove it because I had no fucking clue where to start digging.
Which meant I had no idea how in the hell to pull the issue out of my father in the first place.
