At the Stars(66)

Keith Dixon. All-around good guy.

“Then you shouldn’t stop by to see me. I don’t want to slow you down.”

“They’re not expecting me until the end of the week. I’ve got time.”

I tug on my lip with two fingers, debating. I’m not sure seeing Keith is a good idea. As soon as I think that though, the guilt knife twists in my stomach.

He did help after Mom died. I owe it to him, don’t I? Anyway, it might be nice to catch up.

I think up the name of that diner I went to with Dante. If we meet someplace where I’d have control over coming and going, then it’s neutral. Safe.

I think about Jake and wonder if he’d mind. He might. He got hot under the collar thinking I’d gone on a date with Dante, and that was with someone who was only a friend.

For a moment, a quick one, more guilt rises up. I slap it down with a reminder that Jake was the one who left AJ’s room this morning even though he’d supposedly wanted us to talk so badly. I guess sometimes plans change.

Decided, I put the phone back to my ear. “Okay, yeah,” I say to Keith. “We can meet.”



Jake

It’s my night to lock up the cage where we keep the cars. I wind up sitting in there with the now-junked shell of Cassie’s old car, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.

It’s not that the car’s a problem. She’s told me I could do what I wanted with the big-assed paperweight. I keep telling myself I’ll tow it to the salvage yard, only I haven’t had time. Not like there’s any reason to keep it. I’d only be trading one giant, metal reminder of my shit decision-making for another. It’d be funny in some way though, I suppose. Giving Cassie my old Mazda to get rid of the memories associated with it, and then hauling home her dead Volvo. Letting a whole new crop of memories grow in my backyard.

Right.

Thanks to summer and daylight savings time, there’s still light in the sky when my dad walks up from around the corner. The sight of him surprises me, after all this time.

I didn’t honestly think he’d come “Hey.” I hop off the hood of Cassie’s old Volvo and head out to meet him. “How was the drive?”

Left home without a backwards glance? Haven’t spoken to your father in eight years? Start with small talk.

My father answers by gesturing toward the street where he’s parked his restored Jag. “Eh. She’s shimmying some at lower speeds. I think I’ve got a CV going bad.”

Or, respond with car talk.

“If you’re sticking around till tomorrow, I can take a look for you.” I say this with the clear understanding that by the time we’re done talking tonight, he may want nothing to do with me.

“That’d be great, kid.”

It’s a start, anyway. Calling Dad yesterday, I didn’t know what I might find out. Fuck, I didn’t know if I’d get Mariana descending on me like an otherworldly demon once she found out I’d made the call.

Honestly, the response was more than anything I expected.

He said he’d come to me so we could talk. I told him not to trouble himself. He said he hadn’t known if his son was alive or dead for eight years... of course he’d come.

Gotta tell you, sometimes a man’s not too big to admit he’s been touched.

“I could stand to have some dinner,” my dad rumbles. It’s funny, he’s an average-sized guy. I was taller than him by the end of middle school. I’d forgotten that in spite of his size, his voice could command entire rooms full of CEOs when he wanted to make it happen.

After Mom died, I guess his motivation went away. I wonder if he’s back at his old job, but now seems the wrong moment for asking.

“There’s Joe’s.” I point across the street. “Mostly bar food. The Heart and Hearth up the road has a bigger selection. More of a sit-down place. Not sure I’m dressed for it though.” I look down at my dirty work clothes.

My father shrugged casually. “No shame in showing you did an honest day of work, kid.”

It’s easy for him to say, in his pleated pants and button-down shirt. I’d be more pissed except that attitude means he’s got more of his old spark than he had when I left. More like when Mom was alive. I want to know. I want to ask tons of things, but knowing the way Dad used to be about eating, he’ll shut down until he gets something in his stomach.

“Okay, I can grab a clean shirt from my car. There’s a diner a couple of towns over. They get a mix of people. Truck drivers, professional folks, and whatnot. They won’t mind a little grease on my pants. Great milkshakes, too.”

“Burgers?”