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My dad’s mouth curves up on one side. He fucking loves dissecting my love life. I think half the reason I tell him about my unrequited crush on a girl who’s way too good for me is because it seems to make him so damn happy to hear.
“You finally take her out?”
I punch out a quick laugh.
“No. School function for seniors. One of those hoity-toity parties for networking or some shit,” I say through pursed lips.
“Your girl is kinda hoity-toity, ain’t that right?”
I chuckle silently at my dad’s use of my words.
“Sure,” I agree.
My neck feels warm, and I know my dad is anxious for more details. As embarrassed as I am talking about Brooklyn with him, he’s also the only person I can talk about her with. Mostly because she’s this anonymous being with him; he lacks any kind of connection with my life at Welles. My life, period. Except for the bits I choose to share.
“Remember I told you about that big accident last spring?”
He nods.
“Right, well, this girl—”
“The girl.”He points with his interjection. My dad is an incarcerated romantic. I’m pretty sure he still thinks he can win my mom back.
“Okay, well . . .thegirl was one of the ones in that crash. She got hurt pretty bad.”
My dad’s mouth twists with sympathy and his brow draws in.
“You never told me.” He sighs, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
I think maybe he’s hurt that I didn’t share.
“I wasn’t sure how to talk about it, and it was such a major event everywhere else in my life—school, home, with my friends. I didn’t want to live it during my visits here more than I had to, I guess.” I shrug and shift, suddenly uncomfortable in my skin. “My best friend’s sister died in that crash, Dad. I guess I’ve felt that should be the focus anytime I talk about it with anyone.”
“Not with me. We don’t got rules around us. No judgement and zero rules when it comes to me and you, okay?” he growls.
The guard behind him takes a step toward us, probably assuming my dad is getting worked up and angry. It’s hard to read his emotions because they all come through his tough exterior, but that was him being passionate and empathetic. I’ve learned the signs over the years. When I was a kid, I used to get scared.
I hold up a palm to the guard and he steps back.
“Sorry, I’m loud,” my dad apologizes.
“It’s all good.”
“Go on, tell me about the girl,” he prompts, leaning forward and folding his hands together.
“Not much to tell, really. She just got a little fatigued at the party and was having a hard time standing, so I sat with her until she felt better and walked her home to make sure she was okay. It was . . .nice.” A bashful laugh slips out and I roll my eyes and grab the back of my neck as I look away.
“Look at you, knight in shining armor. Well done, boy!” He reaches across the table and punches my arm.
“Yeah, yeah.” I glance up at him with a tight smile then look down at my lap where I’m peeling my fingernails into shape, a nervous habit I must have inherited from him. An enigma for nature versus nurture.
“I played the piano for her. A little,” I say, holding up one hand to show a pinch.
“Oh, that’s the move! What did she think?”
I don’t have the heart to tell him it was nothing more than a chord or two, so I lean my head to the side and shrug.
“She called me talented.” That was one hell of a paraphrase.
