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And then the line clicks off.
Christ. I sigh and stare down at the whiskey glasses sitting on the cart for a few seconds and then pick one up and throw a big gulp back. It burns as it trails down my throat, but it doesn’t matter. I hate complications. I hate the unexpected. And I really hate the idea that when I get back to the office, I’m going to have to either be on the lookout for Marcie doing crazy shit to get my attention or face the incredibly uncomfortable position of reporting the situation to HR.
Both are the absolute last things I want to be doing, and frankly, I don’t have time for either of them. Hell, this damn whiskey is the only thing stopping me from running myself into the ground thinking about it.
I slide my cell back into my pocket, refill the gulp I just took out of my glass, and then pick up both tumblers and head for the living room.
When I reach my dad, he’s turned slightly, evidently having been eavesdropping on my conversation. I hand him his glass of whiskey and sit down beside him.
“What was that all about?” he asks, taking a sip of the amber liquid.
“Nothing,” I respond and run a hand through my hair.
“It didn’t sound like nothing. It sounded like there was a woman on the other end of that call who was DTF.”
I cringe. “Do me a favor, Dad. Don’t say DTF. Like, ever. Just don’t say it.”
He shrugs, chuckles, and reaches out to shake my shoulder playfully. “Come on, Ry! You need to lighten up. Live a little, ya know? You’re a good-looking guy with great prospects. Don’t let my genes go to waste.”
He doesn’t get it. He never does. I don’t want to be some showboating Casanova. I’ve built an impressive career. I’m proud of myself for it. And I’m not going to throw it all away for a temporary high. “My job is important, Dad. I enjoy it, and I’m good at it. I can live a little outside of the office.”
He smiles and gives me a pat on the knee before taking a sip of whiskey, and the pounding tension in the back of my head loosens a tiny bit. Maybe he’s finally listening to me—hearing me. “I love ya, Ry,” he adds then with a smile, and I do the same back.
“Love you too, Dad. And I appreciate your making an effort to understand.”
He guffaws then, and my eyebrows draw together. “I don’t understand, buddy. Not at all. You’re too fucking uptight. Too by the book. And I think if you’re not careful, it’s gonna end up killing you young—or at the very least, robbing you of true happiness. But I know you are the way you are, just like I am the way I am. And I don’t think either one of us has much chance of changing the other. Am I right?”
I nod. “On that, we can certainly agree.”
“So, just so I’m clear, I take it your DTF chick isn’t gonna get any D from ya?”
Jesus. I sigh heavily, but also a soft chortle pops from my throat.
“You just can’t help yourself, huh?” I question and stand up from the couch to go to the kitchen, and his chuckles follow me the whole way.
Not even a minute later, he asks, “Hey! What are you doing in there?”
“Finding a hard surface to bang my head against,” I toss back, sarcasm evident in my voice.
“Well, whatever you do, don’t use the counter near the fridge. Damn thing’s been wobbly for weeks!”
If there’s one thing Sal Miller is good for, it’s verbal judo. The man can do sarcasm and shit-talking and comebacks better than anyone I know.
“I’m also getting some ice for you,” I call over my shoulder as I open the freezer door.
“What?” he questions. “Did you say you’re getting ice for my balls?”
“Yeah, Dad. Per Dr. Samson’s orders, I’m getting ice for your damn balls.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair, already anticipating how many times I’m going to have to hear Sal talk about his balls while I’m here. It’s going to be a lot, by the way.
“Won’t be the first time I’ve had to ice these puppies,” he retorts and takes a long drink from his whiskey, punctuating his enjoyment with a smack of his lips and an Ahhh at the end. “While you’re up and at it, why don’t you go ahead and top your dear old dad’s whiskey off.”
Man oh man, Tampa sure is a blast…
September 10th, Thursday
Carly
Welcome to Sunny Creek Village, where everyone is over sixty-five, and Stella Page won’t keep her ass still for more than a minute.
I swear, for a seventy-year-old woman, my mother has far too much energy.
After getting her home last night and enjoying a seriously shitty night of sleep on the ultra-firm mattress in her guest bedroom, I woke up to her shuffling around in the kitchen, trying to make a full breakfast.
