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I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to do this.
I’d do anything to be with her.
It’s my last thought before I’m face-to-face with my dad. His blue eyes cradle mine for an obscenely long time. How many years has it been? I never visited him in prison.
I didn’t want to.
He tried calling plenty, and I mostly let him talk to Farrow.
I skim him again to shy away from his eyes. I showed Luna his picture—sometime last week after we had sex. She asked what he looked like. I had one photo in my phone. I’d taken a picture of a picture that I had of me and him. I was just a kid, and he had me on his shoulders.
Luna told me he looked like Ethan Hawke. Seeing him now, I can’t get that image outta my head.
I take a seat beside him.
He peers beyond me. “Who dropped you off?”
I’m not surprised it’s the first thing he asks. He might’ve even seen Lo as he drove past, so I can’t lie.
“The dad of the kid I protect,” I say.
“Loren Hale?” His brows shoot up.
“Don’t get so excited.” I rest an arm on the back of the bench and stare out at the street. “I think he did it to fuck with me. Get in my head or something. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
He makes ahmmnoise.
“What?”
“I don’t know how you lucked out with that gig.” He eyes my earpiece and the mic cord that fishes down to my radio. “You’re not related tomodelcitizens.”
“That’s ‘cause it wasn’t luck.”
“Right, it was your friend.” He doesn’t name Farrow. “Pays to have connections, doesn’t it?” My dad looks to me like he doesn’t know me. “I have a lot of questions for you. Like why you choseThe Delifor lunch. This place is shit.” He grimaces at the crusty sign in the window.
Exactly.
“It’s gotten better,” I lie. The November chill nips my bare arms. Forgot to bring a jacket.
He snorts. “No, we’re going to Heavens’ Hoagies.” He’s already walking, not letting me have a say. I follow his swift gait to the other side of the street. We easily cross through traffic like this part of the city is ours.
I wonder if he believes I have a tail and he’s intentionally trying to separate us from security.
The bell dings as we enter the hoagie shop.
“Grab a table,” my dad says while he approaches the counter.
My pulse is skyrocketing and nose-diving.
At least security can’t speak through this comms piece. At least Papa Cobalt isn’t talking to me. That might change with other tech they give me and more time to prepare, but for today, I can rest easy knowing there aren’t a million voices in my head.
I pick a gray vinyl booth in the back corner, thinking it’s what he’d choose. I haven’t been to this place since I was a kid. It’d been my dad’s favorite, maybe mine too at one point, but no matter how good the hoagie, I never felt like coming back.
Wawa is better anyway.
I pull out my cigarettes and stick one between my lips.
