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Revving past the hired valet, I screech to a halt in front of the grandiose Fairway manor, likely leaving a set of skid marks on the driveway. Barreling out the driver’s door, I ignore the protests from the young man trying to scold me, along with his demands for my keys. You don’t give your keys to someone if you’re the getaway driver.
Racing up the concrete steps, I finish tying the tie that I slung around my neck in my mad rush out of my house. Black-tie event. Of course, John would demand that his party guests dress to the damn nines for his birthday. I may be barging in here like a bull in a china shop, but at least I’ll fit in. It might afford me a few minutes to go unnoticed.
There’s another service worker at the door with a list. I flash him the message from Randy, informing him I’m a last-minute addition and Randy’s boss. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a do-not-admit section on his list, so I’m allowed inside.
There are people milling around everywhere. Some I know. Some I don’t. Others that I only know of by the mention of them in the local paper as figures of importance in the community. In short, it’s not a surprising guest list for someone who likes to feel important.
Dodging my way through the foyer, I track most of the sounds to be coming from a great room off to my right, which seems to be the main gathering place. It’s packed with more people than I like, milling around small white linen-covered tables. Catering staff float through the room, one even appearing at my side to offer me a drink. I need a drink alright and about six feet more circumference added to my personal bubble, but I decline. I just need to see him. I just need to see that he’s alright.
At the far side of the room, I notice a line has formed. In that line is a handsome young man with sandy brown hair, looking like he’s about to step into oncoming traffic. What is he waiting for?
I wait for the people blocking my view to move. When the crowd parts for a moment, I find the target of Cam’s attention. John. It’s a damn receiving line to talk to the birthday boy. In what world does a son have to wait in line to wish his father a happy birthday?
I will my feet to stay still as I wait. Cam moves one step closer and then another. John gives him a perfunctory glance. Maybe it’s just me, but I can see evident disgust on his face. I swear he’s taking his sweet time talking to whomever he’s chatting with just to make Cam wait that much longer. Cam’s shifting from foot to foot, scratching behind his ear, adjusting his tie. I notice every nervous tick, being the owner of them myself. I can’t stand it any longer. This is going to be a fucking disaster. He’s going to get chewed up and spit out, but this time there might not be anything left. No forced Wenatchee retreats will be able to repair the heartache that his father is capable of unleashing on him.
I start moving through the crowd, but it’s slower going than I would like. People are so damn oblivious to when someone is trying to get by. A hand clamps down on my forearm. I’m about to turn around and tell whomever it is to go fuck themselves, but I bite my tongue.
“Leave him be, Pete,” my father warns.
“Dad?”
My father is here. My tractor-driving father… in a suit and tie. He’s in a suit and tie and not at a funeral. Does he even own a suit?
“He needs to do this on his own.”
“What… What are you doing here?”
Frowning down at the cocktail plate in his hand, he scrutinizes a pastry for a second before nodding over at Cam. “That’s a good young man you’ve got there.”
What is it with my family and Cam’s age? Yeah, he’s younger than me. Noted.
“He’s not that young,” I mutter, tugging at my collar when Cam moves to the next place in line to speak to his father. He’s up next.
“I’m sixty-eight. Almost everybody is young to me.”
Fair enough. Exhaling, I force my gaze away from the impending doom to absorb the unreal sight of my father in the Fairway house. He rolls his shoulders, frowning, and tugs at the cuff of one of his sleeves, looking as uncomfortable as I feel.
“Where’d you get the suit?”
“It’s a rental,” he grumbles. “Don’t ever throw me a party where I have to wear a suit.”
Reaching out, I adjust his lapels, setting his jacket right after his movements shifted it askew. He looks at me oddly, but holds still. He and my mother have visited me in Bellevue over the years, but the majority of our interactions together have been in Wenatchee, on his turf, where he’s the guiding light. I’ve rarely seen him out of his element, where I know something more than he does about life. I can’t believe he rented a tux, let alone that he apparently came as Cam’s escort.
Clearing my throat, I stuff my hand in my pocket. “It looks good.”
My gaze is drawn back to Cam. The guest before him departs, laughing at something John said. Cam steps forward, and my stomach lurches into my throat, knowing there will be no laughter during this exchange.
John’s face looks like a cat’s ass. I want to spin his head around so he can’t wield that awful look like a weapon at Cam. John’s mouth moves, and then Cam’s. Cam’s keeps moving, and I so desperately want to know what he’s saying as his cheeks go flush. I can’t stand the sight of him in discomfort. I’m so proud of him for making the effort, but I know he’s going to be sorely disappointed by whatever that horrid man says to him in return.
John’s gaze shifts, and his eyes land on me. They narrow, and if I thought he couldn’t look any more displeased than a moment ago, he proves me wrong. Fuck. Cam glances over, looking confused about why he’s going unheard. His eyes light up in surprise at the sight of me, and then his father’s lips move. Great. I’ve just made things a thousand times worse.
“I should go over there. He’s just going to upset him again.”
“Pete,” Dad warns, clutching hard onto my arm when I make a move. “Sometimes moral support from afar is better than jumping into someone else’s problems with a machete, like their life is a jungle.”
The words from the man who practiced a hands-off approach to fathering me my entire life take me by surprise. He got me going in the mornings to get to work on the orchard. He taught me how to change the oil in a car. He told my siblings and me not to kill each other. He wasn’t absent, but he left the nitpicking and the coddling to Mom, the nitpicking and coddling that I sometimes hated. I used to think it meant that he didn’t know how to deal with me and my eccentricities. Maybe he just knew what was best.
Swallowing a pill that my instincts tell me not to as I watch Cam and his father converse, each of them a little redder in the face, I stay where I am. Dad’s right. Sighing, I stuff my hands in my pockets and tear my gaze away, so I won’t be tempted to charge over there like a disgruntled knight in shining armor.
