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I go rigid, the mic hot on my chest.
Did not want security to hear about me using meth.
“Nah, I don’t know what that’s like,” I say casually enough, and I pick up the soda with my cigarette hand.
My dad frowns.
“I was a virgin when you gave me meth, you know. Couldn’t exactly compare the two.”
His face contorts, and he shakes his head a thousand times. “I never gave you meth.”
I don’t want to do this with him. I’m looking at the exit.
“Paul,” he forces. “I never gave you meth. What the fuck are you talking about?” His South Philly lilt is as thick as mine. He sounds like my dad.
“It was Mom, alright. You know it was her.”
“What?” He seems genuinely shocked, but I don’t see how.
“You were in the same room,” I almost shout. “Vanessa was next to me. She’s Mom’s best friend—”
“I know who Vanessa is. She’s the fucking reason your mom broke her parole.” He’s fuming.
“Mom was on the other side of me,” I tell him. “And she…” I’m not describing what happened while I’m on a mic. Could it add more time onto my mom’s sentence? Is that possible? I dunno. I was a minor. I was her kid.
Maybe she’s not someone worth protecting, but I can’t be a reason she’s locked away for longer. It happened forever ago.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter.
“I’ll talk to Bridget.” He names my mom, and he’s staring far away at the wall.
“You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know!” he shouts, pissed off. “I thought you took it yourself.” He exhales and destroys the hoagie, angrily picking out strips of roast beef.
I want to believe him. If he is lying, just to pull me closer, he missed his calling. Shoulda been an actor.
I down another gulp of soda, the bubbles scratching my throat.
“You shouldn’t be talking to Colin,” he suddenly says.
It jolts me like being doused with ice. I wonder if security flinched too. “Why not?” I ask him.
“Colin is a little bitch.” He wipes his greasy fingers on a napkin. “And you shouldn’t have made that dumbass deal with my brother. I don’t know what you were thinking.”
Cold pricks my spine.
Lo knows nothing about me giving my paycheck to Scottie.
My throat closes, and my instinct is to say jack-shit. But I know that won’t help draw more out of my dad.
“I’m helping Farrow,” I tell him.
“Farrow?” He gives me an unamused look. “The guy who was loaded and then married into billions. If my shithead brother wanted money, you should’ve let him get it from your friend. Instead, you’re letting him take how much from you? All of it?” He shakes his head with an eye-roll. “Stupid.”
I glare. “If you cared that much about me, then why not tell Scottie to back off?”
“I did tell him it’s dumb. But once he gets an idea in his head, he’s obsessive. He was gonna get the money from someone or keep his rights to that kid. There was no in-between. I just didn’t think you’d be the first one to cave.”
I grind my teeth, avoiding his gaze.
Lo knows now.
Sickness churns in my stomach. I didn’t want him to know what I did. Even if it’s seen as something good. It’s another tally under “why didn’t you tell us earlier?” and “why didn’t you come to us first?”—and I don’t need more of those.
“You should’ve let Farrow pay Scottie.”
“I got that,” I say tensely.
He sighs and exhales deeper. “How’s my nephew doing anyway? Ripley, right?”
I imagine Lo is freaking the fuck out right now. “He’s not your nephew,” I say. “He’s Farrow and Maximoff’s son.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
“He’s fine. Cute.”
My dad tries to smile. Remnants of joy are shattered in his eyes. Meth is a pleasure-killer. He thinks it’s the greatest euphoria, but all it really does is annihilate the ability to reach happiness after the high is gone.
I suck on the cigarette and blow smoke up in the air. “If things are so good, then why are you stealing Sullivan Meadows’ Jeep and junking it for parts?”
His face sobers. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Beckett?” I wonder, an untampered rage brewing in my lungs. “You have anything to do with him?”
“With the mugging?”
“You know it wasn’t a mugging.” I look him dead in the eye.
He grips my gaze tighter than before. “I heard about it in passing. Like I said, stop talking to your cousin Colin. And his dad Roark. He’s a little bitch too.”
I lean back in the booth. “Who should I be talking to then?”
He gives me a deadpan look. “Who do you think?”
“You?”
“I’m the only one you should trust at the end of the day.” He tries to flash a warmer smile. “It’s nice. Talking to you. God, I remember when you were little and you loved this place. You’d spend thirty minutes flipping through the jukebox pages, and some old lady always came in and gave you a quarter.” He looks around. “Hasn’t changed much, has it?”
