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She held her glass up to him. “More whiskey?”
He took the glass and laughed. “You sure?” He fanned his hand in front of his face. “You smell like a damn brewery.”
“That would be distillery,” Miranda corrected him. “And yes, I’m sure. Fix one for yourself while you’re at it.”
He disappeared and came back displaying his talents honed as a waiter—dragging a chair with one hand and managing to hold two tumblers with the other. He handed one to Miranda and sat down. “So are we drowning our sorrows? Or celebrating?”
“Drowning, I think.”
He scooted his chair closer. “What’s the matter, hon? Boy trouble?”
“Yeah, but not for me. For Daddy.” Barely taking a breath, she launched into telling him about her reconnaissance mission. She hesitated a bit when she got to the kicker, but then decided none of what she’d said before would make any sense unless she told him about the bathhouse.
David chuckled, and when he saw how much it disturbed Miranda, he stopped—and held her hand, squeezing it gently. “Sorry. But the Tank? Yikes. That place is notorious. Go there and you’re just about certain to come back out with either a case of syphilis or a meth addiction. Or both.” He shook his head. “I’m not kidding.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Miranda gulped some whiskey, staring up at the night sky, hoping the city’s light pollution for once would not block her view of the stars. She was foiled yet again.
“Hey…maybe I overreacted. I suppose normal guys go there.” He sighed. “I went once and honestly was creeped out. There was no joy. Just dark hallways, bad smells, and annoying electronic trance music. It seemed more like a place of despair than a place to go for a little fun.”
“Why would he do that? I mean, he was just out with my dad.”
“He’s a man.” David sipped his drink, staring out at the pines, which swayed in the breeze. “I can’t speak for this Trey person, but maybe don’t read too much into it.”
“What? You’re not defending him, are you?”
“No, not really. But, hon, he might have just been horny. The date with your dad may have gone well, but maybe it wasn’t all he hoped for, if you catch my drift. Hence, a little sustenance on his way home.” He laughed but Miranda didn’t. “Look, sometimes you go to some fancy restaurant where it’s as much about the presentation as it is about the food. They serve you three cannellini beans on a plate with a few dots of a basil infusion and artfully position a nasturtium at two o’clock on the edge of the plate. You eat, you savor, you appreciate.” He looked at her. “And then you stop at McDonald’s on the way home, ’cause damn it, you’re still hungry.”
Miranda thought about this. She gave herself some time. And she could see his point. What she’d witnessed certainly didn’t point to a great guy, but it didn’t necessarily define a horrible person, either. She hated to admit the latter, but it was true.
“Do you get it, hon?”
“I suppose,” Miranda said, begrudgingly. “I still don’t like him. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw a piano.”
“Nor should you. I wasn’t defending him, just saying that from a gay male perspective what you saw wasn’t as bad as you might think. Or as uncommon.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. He stood. “I need to be getting myself off to bed. Too much weed. I’m surprised I woke up. But you must have been telepathically telling me you needed me.”
“Aw, you’re sweet.” She waved him away. “Sweet dreams.”
“Only if they’re of Jamie Dornan.”
“Sorry, Jamie has plans with me already.”
“Figures.”
He left Miranda sitting alone, feeling at least marginally better.
SHE DIDN’T EXPECTto sleep, but it came almost as soon as she hauled herself off to bed. Maybe it was the alcohol, but sleep descended on her like a dark and heavy blanket.
She didn’t dream of actor Jamie Dornan. Instead she dreamt of her dad. He was walking down Dexter Avenue just ahead of her, on the part that sloped sharply downhill just before leveling off at the bottom. He turned right and headed toward the Fremont Bridge, spanning the waters over Lake Union. There was a weird greenish light in the sky and no traffic, although these streets and the bridge were usually clogged with vehicles.
Trey sped by her on a bicycle, not looking at her. He went straight ahead on Nickerson, while Dad plodded toward the bridge.
The bridge’s warning gongs broke the silence. It was about to rise. Miranda could see the tall mast sailboat moving slowly toward the shadows beneath the bridge.
Her father surprised her. He began to run, as though he could beat the rise of the bridge as it split into two.
She tried to call to him, but when she opened her mouth, no sound emerged. She screamed herself hoarse as he skirted the gates coming down to bar foot and vehicle traffic.
Her throat was raw and burning despite the fact she was unable to make a sound.
