Meanwhile, I was all scowls.
“It’s like a nice day and shit out there,” Pop said, setting the box of donuts down on top of a stack of dusty files.
I narrowed my eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Can’t I want to see my son and congratulate him on his new fancy job?”
I glanced over at the old clock on the wall. “It’s nine in the morning. You went to bed six hours ago.”
He shrugged. Stuffed a glazed donut into his mouth and peered at the show calendar while tapping his foot in time to The Smiths album I’d turned on. For the first time in a while, I was cranky and out of sorts and wanted Morrisey’s sad-synth-pop to soothe me. Being in this office and trying to get a handle on Pop’s files was stressful enough. But I’d tossed and turned all night, torn between excitement over my new job and this desperate worry that I was making a mistake. Made worse by the fact that Fiona was clearly a magical sex witch who’d cast a spell over me. In one week’s time, I’d gone from confident playboy with a reputation for dirty sex to clumsy goofball who just wants to kiss the girl he has a crush on.
“Earth to Maxy.” Pop’s smoker rasp snapped me out of it. “Are you happy about your new job or what?”
I sighed, refocused on Pop. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, hands on his knees, with a look on his face that tore my goddamn heart out. After Mrs. Rivera cooked me the most delicious arroz con gandules—and only chastised me a little bit—I’d swung by The Red Room to fill Pop in on the good news about my new gig at Rusty’s. He’d been excited, like always, but I caught the same disappointment I’d seen on Fiona’s face earlier that night.
He seemed sad about my news but didn’t want to show it.
“Of course, old man,” I said. “Who wouldn’t be? I’m just a little preoccupied with the concert, making sure things come together and all. We’ve only got eight days to go.”
He cleared his throat. “How are things going?”
“Good,” I promised. “We’re at 200 tickets sold, so 150 left. I’ve confirmed eight bands total, including The Hand Grenades as the headliners. You could tell the crowd tonight at the Electric Roses show, drum up a little extra interest?”
“I like that idea,” he said, smiling again. “Unless you think folks won’t support me. Support us. It’s a lot of my private business out there.”
I nodded. I got it. “This community loves you and loves this place. Besides, everyone in the audience tonight has had their damn rent jacked up by some landlord. This is New York. They’ll get it. They need this place as much as we need it.”
I kicked back in the chair and tossed my feet up on the desk. Thought about Pop telling Fiona that things could be busier. Thought about Mateo, telling me that Pop had seen his engagement video way before I had.
Nudging him with the tip of my boot, I gestured for him to hand the box of donuts over. “Pop, why didn’t you tell me things had been tight? Even when far away I would have listened. Offered help or ideas if I could.”
His expression shifted, and it reminded me so much of Mateo telling me I couldn’t get away with doing my Max Devlin thing. Fucking up and charming my way out of every situation because I was a likable guy. The donut I was eating turned to ash in my mouth, and I struggled to swallow it.
“Ah, I know,” Pop said. “And you know I’ll, uh, I’ll miss you all the time when you’re out in California. That’s far. The farthest you’ve gone, huh?”
I shrugged, casual. “Not so far I can’t call you all the time. Continue to be here even if I’m not physically here.” I tapped the files with my finger. “Help with this stuff.”
He rubbed his bald head, wincing. “I don’t mean this in a mean way or anything. But when you were a teenager, I could tell you weren’t gonna be the kind of kid who hung around with his dad forever. Watching you leave that day, on your bike, that was, uh… that was a tough day for me.” That wasn’t my memory at all. Although I’d been so excited, I didn’t pay attention to the friends and family as I kicked off down the road.
“I don’t always tell you things because it feels like you’ve got other stuff going on. Important stuff. You always wanted to be like your mom anyway. Not your stick-in-the-mud dad.” He touched the same files. “Didn’t think this would interest you, to be honest.”
I couldn’t tell him he was wrong. I’d literally just told Fiona that I loved teasing my dad about how he wasn’t the “fun” parent. Not like my free-spirited mother, who was always happy and always on the go. But what seemed like a badge of honor now made me feel awful. Like I’d abandoned the person who’d sacrificed everything to raise me as a single parent.
“You’re not a stick in the mud, Pop.” I cleared my throat. Made sure he didn’t look away. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t as interested when I should have been. I’m here now, and I’ll make it right.”
At least until I leave again in nine days.
“It’s okay,” Pop said, forgiving me immediately. As usual. “We’ll make it right. Together. We always were the best team, weren’t we?”
My smile came easy and relieved. I glanced over at the framed picture next to his old monitor, one of the only pictures he’d ever framed and kept out. A newspaper had written a story about a beloved local band playing a sold-out show at The Red Room and a photographer had taken these behind-the-scenes pictures. I couldn’t be more than six or seven, and Pop is chatting with the band, who are pierced and spiked and tattooed to within an inch of their lives. He’s holding my hand, and I’m holding some toy truck of mine, gazing up at the musicians like they are gods. It was such a perfect encapsulation of my childhood here and all the quiet ways he brought me into his life, no excuses.
“Hey Pop?”
“Yeah?”
I nodded over at the picture. “Where was Mom that day?” I’d never asked before.
His jaw went tight. “Atlantic City for the weekend with some friends. She told me she was feeling cooped up and needed a little space. I only remember because that show was a huge fucking deal and we had reporters coming. No one was able to help that weekend, so I brought you with me the whole time.”
That didn’t settle in my stomach right.
“You hear from her recently?” he asked.
“Uh… no. It’s been more than a year. She was out in Vegas for a bit,” I said, uneasy. “I did text her when I got here, to let her know I was back in town for two weeks. But she never answered.”
“Maybe you’ll see her more, if you’re in L.A.,” he said. “She always wanted to live there.” He crossed his arms, foot tapping again not on the beat. I eyed him, concerned, because his face was turning beet red right in front of me.
“Pop, are you okay?” I asked, growing alarmed.
He scoffed. “Yeah. I want to know if you can help me with answering Angela. She emailed me this morning.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise, my alarm smoothing over to relief. “So that’s what the donuts and the I just want to see my son spiel was about. You want my help in the lady department.”