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“It’s worth a try.” I run my fingers down his plaid button-up and then tap right over his heart. “Oh, and don’t mention The Pointe Estates.”
He tilts his head, his eyes staring through squinted lids. “So don’t mention where I grew up? Gotcha.”
“It’s not about you, babe. It’s about Liz. It’s not worth treading into those choppy waters.”
“Got it. No Pointe. No estates. Beer. Food. Sports. And you.”
“Hey, you made a rhyme.”
He chuckles. “Let’s do this. I have plans for you later.”
Turning around, I shake my ass as I take the last step. “Huh. Wonder if they’ll clash with the plans I have for you.” I glance over my shoulder and give him a little wink.
“Fuck, I hope so.”
I open the screen door and reach for the knob on the front door. “Oh yeah, don’t swear in front of him.”
“Really? I didn’t think your dad was—”
“Her dad was what?” Dad opens the door, pulling the knob out of my hand, and instantly silencing Harbor.
Harbor holds out the food. “I brought a side dish.”
My dad grumbles, looking back and forth between the white baking dish and my boyfriend, and then turns around to go inside. “Better not be Brussels sprouts.”
“There’s bacon in them,” Harbor replies, doing his best sales job. When I look back, a bead of sweat is forming on his hairline. He looks nervous. Now I’m not the only one. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. Whispering, he says, “I knew I should have gone with the mac and cheese.”
I take the dish from him and go inside the house, only pausing once Harbor is in the door, so I can say. “Don’t worry. He’ll eat them.”
The familiar sound of grumbling is heard, but this time it’s Harbor, not my dad. “This is starting off great,” he says sarcastically.
Wishing I could hold it back, but I can’t, so I laugh. “Come on. Let’s go out back.”
I leave the Brussels sprouts inside the oven. It’s not on, but I’m hoping to keep them warm until we’re ready to eat. In the back, I get my dad and Harbor settled in the nice chairs, each with a beer. They’re content watching me rather than interacting with each other, so I try to instigate a conversation that will get them talking. I say, “Harbor gave me a Yankees jersey, a real one like they sell at the stadium shop.”
My dad’s eyes shift to Harbor. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” he replies. “I knew she always wanted one, so I thought I’d surprise her.”Oh crap.
There are two ways to take that—as defense—he got me what my dad couldn’t afford. Or offense—he got her something that she’s always wanted. I have no idea how my dad will take it.
Gulping the beer, my dad lowers it right after. His gaze moves from me to Harbor when he says, “That’s a nice gift.”
I smile, proud of him for not making it something it’s not. He gets up to flip the burgers, and I get another quick look at Harbor and give him a thumbs-up. Grinning, Harbor reaches over and takes my hand. Bringing it to his mouth, he kisses my palm.
The burgers get extra attention, and my dad lingers, which makes me think he’s aware of us behind him.
Harbor then stands to help oversee the grill, and my dad starts talking to him about techniques, which appears to keep them not just occupied but bonding as well. I sneak inside to give them time to talk about whatever they need to get off their chests. For my dad, it’s going to be questions regarding his intentions, some about his background, and his plans for the future.
I pour a glass of tea, choosing to be the designated driver tonight because I think Harbor will need the liquid courage more than me. The glass of tea reminds me of what that lady said to me.Gross.What a terrible human being.
I’m also reminded that I need to tell my dad. I’d hate for him to hear it from someone else. Who knows what version they’ll tell. I return to the deck and sit on a stool. Harbor sits down, but he’s still laughing. “Yeah, when they traded DeLeon, they lost the soul of the team.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” my dad says, gripping his hands in front of him as he looks up at the sky in aggravation. “Such a shitty move.”
Harbor shoots me a look, furrowing his eyebrow in question. I know what he’s asking. John Summerlin swears worse than any sailor. I start laughing to myself because it’s entertaining to innocently tease Harbor.
He reads me too well. That furrowed brow cocked up on the right side, and he says, “Totally fucked up.”
