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“So, I have a proposal for you.” I kick at the concrete in the parking lot.
“Oh, yeah? Shoot.”
“There’s this girl. She’s new in town, and well, I just want to make her feel welcome, and who better do that than Porter Gates?”
He cocks a brow. “And you want me to build her up so you can send her crashing back down?”
“You’re a good man. Look, I’ll talk to my dad about the internship next year.” Porter is a year below me, and his biggest dream is to work for my father.
“You drive a hard bargain. Who is she?”
“Ash Hawthorne. Marcella’s cousin.”
“Oh yeah,” a wicked smile flashes across his face, and it annoys me that he seems happy about it. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she? Won’t be all that difficult. She’s joined the journalism club.”
“Well, don’t get too attached. I expect results.”
“No sweat. I’m not interested in her.”
That doesn’t explain the glint in his eye when I mentioned Ash, nor does it explain how much that irritates me.
* * *
My father’s Jaguar is in the garage when I get home. Even though I expected him home, it still throws me off. Walking into the kitchen, I wish I’d stayed out longer because my parents are making out, and my mother giggles like a teenager. Their weekend away seems to have done the trick, if only for the next week.
I clear my throat, and they lazily separate.
“Ryder,” my father greets, his chest puffed out. My mom’s hair looks a mess, and her lips are swollen. Thank goodness it wasn’t more than a heated kissing session, or I’d have thrown up.
“Dad. Good to have you home.” I reach into the refrigerator for a ginger beer and eye the wine glasses on the kitchen island. When it suits him, he feeds her addiction; when it’s too much, he bails, and he leaves me behind to pick up the pieces.
I walk over to my mom and kiss the top of her head. “You gonna be home for dinner, honey?”
“Dylan invited me over.”
“Your father’s rarely here. Why don’t you make an exception tonight? You see Dyl, all the time.” My mom busies herself at the stove. Whatever she’s cooking smells good, and I’m tempted to stay. It’s strange to see her cooking. We have Harriet for that. My parents must have given her the evening off. It’s even stranger to see her smiling and laughing without a good quarter of bourbon in her.
“Let the boy live his life, Ruthie.” My father circles her waist with his large hands, kissing her cheek. “More alone time for me. We need to have a talk, though, Ryder.”
There it is, parenting on the go. GPA on point–check. Starting at the game next month- check. College applications–check. The laundry list of must-be-done tasks to be the next Coben Rothwell is endless. What he doesn’t realize is that he is no role model, and he is certainly no father. He gave up that right a long time ago.
* * *
“So, what? Your dad is just back now?” Dyl asks, picking a carrot from the board. His mom smacks his hand.
“Yeah, for now,” I say, shrugging.
“Give him a chance, Ry. He may surprise you.” Mrs. Kent has been like a second mother to me, maybe more so than my own, but when you’ve had the kind of life and marriage that she and Mr. Kent have, it’s easy to see the glass half full. Her opinion matters, but it just doesn’t work that way with my parents.
“It’s just hard to get used to the man being around when he’s gone more than he’s here.”
She gives me a small smile. “I’m sorry, Ry.” She rounds the island and wraps her small arms around me as much as she can. “Just know it’s not a reflection of you.”
I nod when she pulls away. She knows that is about as much as I’ll say on the matter. The sound of a guitar playing has me staring at Dyl. “Marcy plays?”
I walk toward the kitchen door. “Nah, that’s Ash. She’s pretty good, isn’t she?”
I shrug. “I suppose so.” She is more than good. She’s fucking talented. I step onto the porch and look over the wall separating their homes. She sits on a bench in the garden near a pond, strumming a song and humming the lyrics. Her hair cascades like a waterfall, blocking her face from view, and for a moment, I forget that it’s Ash, and my heart aches at the sad tune.
