Riptide (16 page)

twenty-four

advice:
recommendation regarding
a decision or course of conduct
—www.merriam-webster.com

You should … you know. Go for her.

Those seven words, combined with the completely un-
readable look on Grace’s face as she said them, was on repeat all night long. And every time I process that stupid conversation, I get more irritated. What makes her think I need her permission? And what is
she
doing? Rubbing things in my face? It almost feels like she’s just throwing shit at the fan to watch it fly because she doesn’t want to deal with her own crap.

I blink open my eyes wider, trying to wake up as I gulp coffee on my way to work. I’m not used to losing sleep, period. And having my eyes feel like they’re recovering from an acid wash doesn’t endear Grace to me further.

I rush up the stairs and enter the office at the same time as Mr. Parker.

His voice booms, “Morning, Ford. Walk with me.”

“Yes sir.” My left eye twitches as I follow him like a prisoner to the guillotine, my mind racing. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, we walk down the hall silently, which is more ominous to me than the eerie calm before a storm.

He opens his office door, makes two giant strides toward his desk, plops down, and motions for me to take a seat.

I pull back the leather chair and sit on the edge, ready to bolt.

He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, which can’t be true. He’s still up to his eyeballs in that Thompson case. “How do you think the summer is going?”

“Pretty good, sir.”

“You keeping the guys away from my little girl?”

“Doing my best, sir.” Forget the fact that I’m burning up mad and not planning on talking to Grace for a few days at least.

He sits up straight. “Is that good enough?”

“I think so. She’s not dating anyone.”

He puts a fist down gently on the desk. “That works.” Then he looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re a pretty smooth guy. I hear you have a side project going.”

What is he talking about? Nothing’s happened with Grace. Brianna? I’m kerflummoxed, so I play it safe and wait for him to keep talking.

“Hollingsworth?”

Worried about Hien’s help blowing up, I scoot to the very edge of the seat. “Is that a problem, sir?”

He laughs. “What Hollingsworth does on his time is his business. He’s got a long way to make senior partner, and one pro bono isn’t going to change that. Just make sure when you’re here that you’re working on the things you’ve been asked to do. Anything that belongs after hours belongs after hours. Are we square on that, son?”

Doing my best to keep a poker face, I say, “Yes sir. Is that all?”

He stands up, smoothly guiding me to the door with his body cues. “That’s all.”

I exit his office fuming, but remind myself he’s helped a lot of people. A lot of my people.

Engine parts are scattered in neat piles across our garage floor. Everything has an order to it. There’s a reason for the way it’s laid out—it makes it easier when Dad needs that part later. His methodical approach to rebuilding engines extends into everyday life. He doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, I listen. The kickass thing about my dad is that his words match his actions.

He’s rehabbing an old Jag. V12 engine, 575 horsepower. A type-E Roadster convertible. Sleek lines. The kind of car that gives every red-blooded teenage guy a hard-on. The car is sick. In the best way.

Dad holds out his hand; I pass him a socket wrench. He leans back over the engine, finagling his hands in tight spaces because he’s a pro. Someday, I want to know engines as well as my dad. There’s something about being able to fix something with your own hands, a feeling of complete satisfaction.

Mr. Parker was a total douche this morning. The conversation with Grace last night, the way she was so upset. And the words “carried away” are etched in my brain as sure as the memory of Kahuna Pete carrying her limp body onto the beach. It’s hard to know what she meant by all that. How much she’s not saying. Yeah, her old man can certainly let people have it in court. Every word is calculated to his advantage, building his case. And then there was that morning in his office after Grace’s accident, when he had fun playing cat and mouse. Testing me. Is that what’s she’s talking about? Does he push her into verbal corners? Or is it more? He can be a hardass, but he’s also done a lot of good for a lot of people.

Sometimes I don’t understand what Grace does or says. She doesn’t want to date, but we have all these little moments where I think she wants more or she seems jealous. Then there’s the whole Brittany/Brianna thing. She was all worked up, like she was itching for a fight. Then she told me to date Brianna? I don’t get it.

“Dad?” I ask. “How’d you know Ma was the one?”

Dad pops up from the car, knocking his head on the hood. He flinches and grabs the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “What’s that?”

I shake hair out of my eyes. “You know. How do you know when to make the move to date someone?”

He steps back and sits on a stool, grinning. “Is it Grace?”

Frustrated, I shake my head no.

He gets this concerned look. “What happened, son?”

His “son” reminds me of Mr. Parker’s “son,” and that how someone says a word can make all the difference. I walk over to his toolbox and start messing with a socket wrench, winding it around.

He says, “Did you two fight last night?”

I say, “Kind of. But that’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

I hesitate before I say it out loud. To Dad. Admit rejection. End it fast. “She doesn’t want me. She’s into surfing. That’s it.”

Dad says, “Well, maybe she needs time.”

Nope. He doesn’t get it. Shit. I hate saying it. “Dad, I pretty much asked her out at the beginning of the summer and she shot me down. Grace and I are nothing more than good friends. Really.” Flashes of the moments when Grace and I were doing something together and I felt sparks drive me crazy. Like the time at the Point when I swear she was going to kiss me. But that’s crazy wishful thinking. With Grace, I feel like I doubt everything. I don’t have any gut instincts anymore and I’m sick to my stomach. Angry. I need to burn off some energy.

He grabs a rag and scrubs at grease on his arms. “Then who’s the girl?”

“Brianna from work.”

“The one you took surfing?”

I grin. She was so clueless and fun. It’s one of the first times in a while where I hung out at the beach without worrying about saying the wrong thing to Grace or worrying about some tool hitting on her. The beach just isn’t as stellar this summer. It’s like Grace and her dad have sucked a lot of the fun out of it. “Yeah.”

He smiles. “She likes you, huh?”

I start feeling a little better. “She asked me out too.”

“You like her?”

After a split second, I say, “Yeah. I think so.”

Dad throws the towel at me. I dodge, blocking it with my arm. He grins and says, “Then go for it.”

I nod. “Yeah. I think I will.”

But I can’t get Grace out of my head. Our conversation last night. Her vague explanations. It nags at me, like my little cousin Carlos who won’t quit pulling on your pants until he gets what he wants.

I ask Dad, “What do you do when somebody seems like they’re in trouble? Kind of serious … but you don’t know what it is.”

Dad angles his body under the hood and grunts. Then
he says, “Well, I don’t see there’s much you can do to help someone if you don’t know what kind of help they need.” Then he pops out from under the hood, sets down the wrench, and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Son, you’ll run across situations in life where you don’t know all the angles. That’s when you need to trust your gut and read between the lines.”

Then he gives me the Dad-pat-on-the-shoulder move. One of those
I imparted wisdom son
looks with a whack on the shoulder to show he cares. Which is great … ’cause he does. But what do you do when you don’t know what lines to read between?

twenty-five

In the end, who among us does
not choose to be a little less
right to be a little less lonely.
—Robert Brault

Thanks to it being a rainy day, my weekly run with Mom is a no go. I look out the kitchen window and sigh. I needed to burn off some steam this afternoon.

Mom says, “Bummed about the run?”

“I was looking forward to getting out.” I was looking forward to time with her, to hanging out without getting into a catfight.

She pads across the floor and stands by me, watching the rain drill everything in its path. “Well, just because we can’t run doesn’t mean we can’t get out for an hour. We’ve got options.”

“What?”

She puts her arm around my waist in a hug. “Did you ever stop to think your dear old mom has a pretty nice ve-hicle, that works? Let’s go to the Chocolat Caf
é
. We can splurge on French pastries.”

Whoa. Splurge on extra calories? Empty ones? Wow. Mom must have had a super shitty week. Although the Chocolat Caf
é
isn’t what I had in mind, it’s a fun back-up plan. Maybe we can talk … about whatever happened a couple of nights ago.

“Okay then.” Mom pats my knee. “We’ll leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll touch up my makeup and change tops.”

“All righty.”

“Grace?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re gonna do a few touch-ups too, right? Just a little lip gloss and maybe change into a nicer shirt?”

Never good enough.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll change.”

Mom is totally anti-chain stores. She’s all about helping Mom and Pop shops—until it comes to groceries or gas stations. I guess everyone draws a line somewhere.

She sips her caf
é
au lait, fingers laced around it. Then she takes a dainty bite of a chocolate croissant.

I slurp some whipped cream melting into my white chocolate mocha and accidentally suck up more mocha than cream. The roof of my mouth is officially burned. A little flap of skin hangs down, a reminder of my stupidity. Yay.

“So, what’s going on with you and Ford lately?”

I wipe at the cream on my upper lip, a tactical maneuver to hide my surprise.

Mom adds, “Didn’t you go over to his house for dinner the other night?” We haven’t really spoken since the night she was a wreck.

“Nothing’s going on,” I say. “And the girl he’s dating isn’t named Brittany. It’s Brianna.” Saying her name is like biting into a lemon. “I don’t have time to mess with a relationship. Besides, Ford’s been a real tool lately.”

She nods her head, with a kind of knowing look like she knew he would disappoint me all along, which totally burns me. He’s not that kind of guy. Usually. “You’re absolutely right, sweetheart. Ford seemed like a nice guy. They all do at first, though…” Her voice trails off and she stares at a 1950s beach advertisement. There’s a young couple in swimsuits looking like they’ve found nirvana. She looks wistful; I feel sad for her. “Your father was quite the surfer when we first met.”

“Mom … if you want to talk about things … ” My voice trails off and I realize how lame I must sound.

She snaps to and paints a smile on her face. Her bright chipper reaction amazes me. It’s like she doesn’t recognize the fact we live in the same house. “Things? There’s nothing to discuss.”

She stands up, caf
é
au lait in hand, and motions me to follow her to the car. Great. After a nice afternoon, I screw things up.

Once inside the car, Mom doesn’t start the engine. She sighs and tears well up at the corner of her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Mom pauses.

“Is it Dad?”

Mom says, “You know I love your father. I really do, but sometimes it’s … well, it’s just hard.”

My mouth opens a little bit. I burst out, “What happened the other night? Why were you so upset?”

Her fingers grip the steering wheel. “Nothing happened. Your father and I got into an argument.”

“About what?” I kick off my flip-flops, pull my knees to my chest, and turn toward her. This is not an everyday conversation.

“About money, about relationships, about his temper.”

“Way to go, Mom!”

Apparently my encouragement isn’t welcome. She takes the one wild, lone strand of hair and tucks it carefully back into place. “Do you think I haven’t had these conversations before? Do you think we haven’t argued about these topics? We do all the time, and it always ends the same—with me hurt and nothing gained.”

Everything has been piling up like dirty laundry I can’t ignore. It’s driving me crazy. If she doesn’t leave, then I’m stuck here too. I push. “Then why stay?”

She throws back her head and laughs a dry, eerie laugh. “Get real. Like I’ve told you before, at my age I’m not looking for change or planning on announcing my failures to the world. I said my vows and I meant them—for better or worse.” She white-knuckles the steering wheel, puts on her fake happy, and pulls out of the parking space with perfect control.

Are you kidding me? “What about his vows? ‘To love and to cherish?’”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? What? Were his vows different than yours?”

“Grace—”

“Or maybe his didn’t count?”

She slams on the brake. The seat belt locks me in and jolts me back.

“Don’t talk to me like that, young lady. You have no idea what I put up with so you can have a father.”

I adjust the seat belt. “Hello? I live with him too.”

“Do you know how many girls I’ve seen in court that were selling themselves on the street or doing drugs? Do you know what their defense was? No father figure. The way I see it, you’re pretty damn lucky. And you’re sure as hell doing well in school and life … someday you’ll thank me. Someday, you’ll see.”