"Long week."
I don't bother sitting up. Maybe if I look tired enough, he'll drop it.
"Cal, son..." He leans back in his chair, studying me now with that look he gets when he's about to say something I don't want to hear.
"You are a man in your prime."
Oh no.
"Dad." I sigh, heavy and exasperated. "Can we not have this conversation?"
"Past it even, if we're being generous."
"Wow." I drag the word out, shaking my head at the ceiling. "You sure are a treat tonight."
"And you have no business sitting on this couch on a Friday night with your old father when your friends are out in town." He folds his arms over his chest, chin lifted, eyebrows up, waiting for me to argue. "Go."
"I don't want to go."
I drop my head back against the cushion, and it's the truth. Also not the whole truth, but Dad doesn't need to know that.
"That," he says slowly, "is the most concerning thing you've said all week."
I grab the remote and turn the volume up. Players move across the screen in formations I'm not tracking, chasing a ball I couldn't care less about.
"Is there a problem?" Dad asks, trying to sound casual and failing completely. "With the ladies? You can tell me. No judgment."
"Good Lord. There is no problem with the ladies."
"Because it happens. Dry spells." He nods sagely, like he's imparting wisdom. "Perfectly normal."
"Dad, I'm begging you."
"I just want you to know you can talk to me. Man to man."
He's the picture of sincerity. Completely unbearable. I close my eyes, and consider the merits of moving out again.
"There is no dry spell. There is no problem. I am sitting on my couch because I am tired, and that is the entire story."
Dad hums, picks his book back up, and turns to a random page like he's already moved on, like he didn't just spend five minutes dismantling me for sport.
"Well. Can't be that, I suppose."
I glare at him. "What can't be what?"
"A problem scoring. Can't be that." He waves a hand at me, up and down my body, like I'm evidence.
"I hear girls these days are very keen on tall men like you. Broad ones, muscles everywhere." He circles his index finger toward my stomach, and I genuinely consider breaking it.
"Abs like yours are popular. Apparently there are videos about it."
I stare at him. Blink. Blink again.
"Videos?"
"Lily showed me. On her phone." He taps his chin, searching for the word like he doesn't already know exactly what he's doing. "Something about... thirst traps."
I have no response. None. I just stare at him while my brain tries and fails to process the phrase "thirst trap" coming out of my father's mouth.
