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I type back, That kid is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. The guy holding him up… not so much.
Saint texts back immediately. Bite me.
Chuckling, I put my phone on my stomach and focus on the TV.
“What do you want to watch next?” my dad asks. He’s cocked back in my recliner, remote control in his hand. We just finished a World War II documentary, and I only paid partial attention, instead thinking about Abby.
Which is very telling since I love history as much as my dad does, and watching documentaries is something we often do together.
“I don’t care,” I say, my fingers curling tight into my palm to force myself to not pick up the phone to text her.
Pointing the remote at the TV, he turns it off. I’m surprised as it’s far too early for him to go to bed. Mom went in about half an hour ago because she has a book she wants to read, but Dad’s a night owl like me.
“Okay… spill it. What’s got you in a jumbled mess? Is it Adriana?”
I shoot him a chastising look. “Why would you assume it was her? And for the record, no. I rarely think about her.”
Unless it’s to wonder when I can get the fuck out of the business. She has yet to email me the documents to review, but since she hung up on me during our last conversation, not shocking. Maybe I should just let an attorney handle this.
Dad looks at me pointedly. “I don’t know. It sort of feels like a girl thing.”
Christ. I scrub my hand over my head, marveling at his uncanny ability to pick up on even subtle nuances in behavior. He’s not a psychologist. He’s never studied human behavior. He’s never tended bar where he might get to hear all the problems in the world and be able to deduce mine.
No, Charlie McCord is a mechanic who is more in tune with cars than people.
But he’s a father, and he knows his only son well.
“Definitely not Adriana.” I feel it bears repeating so we can move on from that. Dad likes to impart wisdom whenever he can, and I don’t need it where she’s concerned. “But there is a woman.”
“Lay it on me,” he says, motioning with his hand to indicate he’s ready to accept my burdens.
So I lay them out.
I tell him all about Dr. Abigail Blackburn without omitting a single detail. My parents are the least judgmental people in the world and wouldn’t ever think bad of Abby for stealing a dog or getting arrested for protesting. In fact, my mother would be the type to protest with her. I tell Dad about the brief time we’ve spent together and that we have our first official date scheduled for next Friday, but that I can’t stop thinking about her.
It doesn’t feel weird to bare these things to my father. He’s always been the best sounding board, and his advice has never steered me wrong.
He listens thoughtfully, and when I’m done, he says, “I have to wonder why you’re here rather than with her. If you like her so much, why are you waiting until next weekend? I mean, you spontaneously brought her lunch yesterday and that pleased her.”
“Well, yeah. But I kind of have company visiting this weekend.”
Dad chuckles at my snark. “And we had a great time hanging out today. But”—he looks at his watch—“it’s ten thirty, which isn’t late by you young people’s standards and we spent all day together. Why don’t you go see her?”
My hand jerks reflexively and without any conscious thought, I grab my phone from my stomach. But I only hold it. “Just call her up and see if she wants to hang?”
“Why call her?” he says slyly. “She seems like a girl who likes the spontaneous in you.”
“It’s ten thirty. It’s late.”
“Good God,” my dad drawls, “are you seventy-nine or twenty-nine?”
I snicker. “I’m most definitely not seventy-nine.”
My dad points to the door. “Go. Drive over there, see if the lights are on. If they are, knock on the door. If they aren’t, knock on the door.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
“I’m a charmer, and you get it from me. I also go after what I want, and you most definitely get that from me. Don’t waste the passage of DNA, son. I’d be most disappointed.”
And that convinces me right there. I love and respect my dad. I model myself after him, so if he’d go throw pebbles at a girl’s window late at night, why shouldn’t I?
“Word of advice,” he says as I rise from the couch.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t do the whole boom box thing outside the window playing a corny song. It’s not a good look.”
He’s referring to when I was fifteen and had a crush on a girl who was two years older than me. I’d seen the movie Say Anything, and it appealed to my romantic side. I thought I might have a shot of losing my virginity with the same stunt.
