“That’d be great, yeah.”
She falls into the driver’s seat and I pat my hand on the edge of the door, relieved and a little excited, despite the fact I truly shouldn’t be.
“Great,” I laugh out, repeating her word. Great. It’s all just great.
My cheeks burn, and I know it’s because all of a sudden, I’ve turned into a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Friday, I guess? Before the hike?” I suggest.
She nods and for a tiny moment, I can see her wanting more. I feel it, the pull of our regret and the mutual forgiveness we’re both too damned stubborn to grant.
“You ready, Dusty? They quit serving brunch at noon,” Chelsea says from somewhere behind me.
My eyes flutter closed, but the last thing I see is the ice form over Hannah’s. I back away and open my eyes again as she pulls the door closed and buckles up. She offers me a tight-lipped, fake-as-hell smile on her way out.
“Be right there. Let me wash up.”
Dusty. She’s never called me that, and I can’t believe Tommy would coach her. No, Chelsea was simply trying it on for size, probably flexing to judge how close she and I are, claiming her territory. I get it. I’ve acted like her with Hannah. Like dogs, we piss all over our property. Of all the damn things in the world she could say, though, it had to be that? She had to call me Dusty.
5
Dad is pulling the boat into the driveway when I drive up. I park quickly and linger by the garage, admiring the way that man can successfully maneuver twenty feet of hull around my mom’s decorative front wall and cactus garden. He’s only taken out one that I remember, and I helped him hide the evidence. Occasionally, Mom still questions if she’s one cactus short, but I keep up my dad’s lie. He crushed that sucker with his truck because he was excited listening to the Suns game. I was nine, and we filled in the hole with rock before my mom ever noticed. As for the barrel cactus? It was swiftly wrapped in the week’s junk mail and tossed under layers of trash.
It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out alone with my dad. The last few attempts haven’t been great, and they’ve been during his and Mom’s visits up to Omaha. I tried to show him the digital graphic series I was working on for my final exhibition. He said my work was “cute” and asked how much money I might make from it. I explained it was all for critique and judging and would complete my degree.
He has no idea that I student teach at the institute, which is enough to offset my last semester and pay the few bills I have. I am suddenly uninspired to tell him. My mom thinks Jorge pays for everything. They’ve only asked about us getting married once, thank God. I don’t like bolstering that idea with Jorge. I’ve been upfront and clear with him, and he says he accepts our friendship. The day will come when that’s not enough anymore, and I will be prepared to support Bristol and me on our own. I have to.
“Fish biting?” I say as my dad climbs out of the truck. He’s wearing his ball cap low on his head, shielding his eyes. I can tell by his frown that it wasn’t a good outing.
“Caught two, threw ’em back.” He goes to work unloading his various pieces of gear, and I step in to help carry them into the garage. There’s a full wall of cabinetry in there now, and when I open the first door to inspect what’s inside, I’m greeted by a tumbling tower of tackle boxes that spill out at my feet.
“Damn it, Hannah!” He drops his rods and scoops up my mess while I remain frozen where I stand, a little shell-shocked that my father just scolded me as though I were six.
“Sorry,” I croak.
He pauses with his hands on one of the boxes and hangs his head while he squats.
“It’s fine,” he says with a wave of his hand. “It was my fault. I left this mess in there like a damn booby trap. I didn’t mean to . . .” Another wave of his hand accompanies a quick glance up at me. That’s his attempt at an apology.
The two of us pick up the spilled gear and get everything back in its place, probably set up to spill again on the next unwitting person who opens that door. Everything between me and my dad is so strangling, and I wish I could just flop down in a chair and cry. But I can’t even seem to do that. I’m not sure how we got to this point. I suppose I’m more than partly to blame. I get my stubborn streak from someone, though, and it sure ain’t Mom.
“House is starting to smell really good,” I finally say. Neither of us wants to go inside. I can tell.
“She hasn’t made a real meal like this in a few years. Not since—”
He leaves that statement open-ended. I know the rest. Not since I left.
“Well, she hasn’t lost her touch. I can’t imagine anything that smells that good doesn’t taste phenomenal.”
We exchange quick smiles and strained gazes before my dad peels his eyes away from me. I breathe in through my nose and wonder if I should quit while I’m ahead and go inside to help Mom boil something when my dad stalls, holding up a finger.
“Hang on,” he says, rushing to the cab of his truck and crawling inside. He pulls out the small cooler he takes with him on his trips and carries it to where I stand, glancing left to right then slipping out the last two beers from inside. He hands me one and nods for me to follow him to the other side of the boat.
“I’m twenty-four now, you know. It’s not so much sneaking when I’m of age.” I take his bottle opener when he offers, pull my cap off, and take a big sip.
“Are you kidding? Your mom wants us all ravenously hungry and thirsty to enjoy that meal tomorrow. She bought special wine and everything. If she catches us out here with two cold ones, she’ll flip her lid. I’m supposed to be fasting.”
We chuckle and toast my dad’s assessment. He’s not wrong. My mom gets a little funny about holiday meals and events. As crazy as she becomes, I’ve also missed it. These are the things that make Thanksgiving and Christmas at my parents’ house uniquely ours. I want Bristol to experience that.
“Your mom roped Jorge into helping, I take it?” I’m a little surprised my dad said his name right.
I nod.
“She did. He’s much better at peeling than I am. I was tasked with paper delivery to the track.” I take another sip to stave off that jealous feeling gnawing at my insides. She called him Dusty.
“Finally got to really see the place, huh? It’s pretty phenomenal.” My dad is proud of Dustin. He should be. I’m proud of him, too. Proud that he was able to find a way to make his dream a reality—a legitimate way. I don’t know why he continues to have a relationship with Alex. He doesn’t need him. And I have to believe Alex would have hurt him by now if that was his end goal after learning Dustin was going to turn him in. From the little Tommy has let slip out, I know Dustin has earned hundreds of thousands for him. I refuse to hear the details, and I don’t think our parents know any of it, but if Dustin was working off a debt, it must be repaid by now. At this point, Alex has nothing to gain by cutting Dustin loose. As long as he earns him money with whatever arrangement they have, he has no reason. After three years of subtle threats, I’ve become all too attuned to how Alex Offerman works.
“You ever hit the track? I saw they have senior day for kart racing,” I tease.