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“What’d you tell him?”
“I said I had to go get sick.”
“That’s the story I used too. I guess we’re in sync.”
Her smile is grim. “No. We aren’t.”
I rock my glass from side to side and watch the liquid nearly slosh over the edge. “I’ve never told someone their dad’s dying before. I figured you’d have some questions, maybe cry a little bit. Never imagined you’d run.”
She picks up her drink and studies it. “You clearly don’t know my dad very well then.”
“I guess not.”
“I’m not going back, War.” She glances at me and puts the drink back down. “Not now, not ever.”
“Okay. I hear you.”
“No, you don’t. Why are you here? Why didn’t my dad send someone else? Like a cousin or—” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. Looking scared.
I don’t answer right away. It’s a good question, and I’m not sure how to explain it. Melody’s been outside of our world for a long time now and I don’t know how much she remembers, but the wealthy folks of Texas are obsessed with their reputations. They’ll do anything to make themselves look better, but life isn’t always clean and lovely and perfect. Sometimes, bad things happen, ugly things, nasty things. Sometimes, bad people are necessary to take care of the garbage. “I take jobs,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows raise. “Most people do. Except people like you. You know, people with trust funds.”
I sip my beer. “Let’s say I found myself in a position where I can’t turn down an opportunity. There are certain things men like your father want done, but they don’t want anyone to find out about it. That’s where I come in.”
Melody groans. “You’re a fixer for rich people now?”
“Oh, well, I guess it’s not that complicated after all.”
“God, I’m just another job for my father, even when he’s dying.” She looks at her hands like they might tell her something. I can’t imagine what she wants them to say—that she’s not related to that man? Or that the stories in her head about their relationship aren’t true? Or a thousand other pretty lies she can keep on telling herself, all the nice little narratives she can weave to make herself feel better.
“He really is, you know,” I say and look straight ahead, into the mirror behind the bar, gauging her reaction. “Dying, I mean.”
Her lips press together. “I don’t care.”
“Cancer. The bad kind.”
“I don’t want to know the details.”
“He’s got months, if he’s lucky.”
“War. Stop it.”
“I’m just doing my job. Once you hear me out, I’m finished. I can head on back, report to your dead dad, cash one of his final checks, and wash my hands of this. Until the funeral. But then again, I doubt I’ll go.”
Her jaw tenses. “Don’t be a fucking asshole,” she snaps. “Are you really such a callous prick? You’re really going to talk about my dad like that?”
I tilt my head. “I didn’t think you cared about him.”
She hunches forward and takes a deep breath. There’s a long pause before she says, “He’s still my dad, okay?”
“Okay.” I take another long drink. “You should go see him while you can.”
“I told you already, I’m not going home.” She glances at me. “Why do you care so much? Do you get a bonus if you bring me back?”
“No,” I say and that’s only a half-truth, my favorite kind of truth.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going. I’m sorry my dad’s dying, I really am, but—” She shakes her head and doesn’t finish.
