My dad looked at him, and I could see the struggle plainly written on his face. “No,” he finally said. “I’ll just wait.”
“I think it’ll become clearer in the second book,” Clark said, transferring glasses to the top rack one by one. “It seems to, for most people.”
“Oh, good,” my dad said, brightening as he turned the water off.
I watched this from the opposite side of the kitchen island, still not quite believing what was in front of me—my dad and my boyfriend, getting along. My dad had grilled hamburgers, Clark had brought a cheesecake for dessert, and we’d eaten outside on the back porch. My dad had given Clark a hard time at first, which he had partially deserved, since he’d gone out of his way to memorize obscure policies my dad had put through and minor floor-debate victories, as though they were common knowledge. So of course my dad had pretended he wanted to talk in detail about these, asking Clark more and more questions, until I finally took pity on him and intervened.
But after my dad had finished torturing him, they actually seemed to get along well, which I had not been expecting—and it meant I could put aside the talking points I’d prepared in case of awkward silences or lulls in conversation. I’d learned my dad loved John Wayne movies, and apparently Clark’s grandfather had as well, so they had that in common. And unfortunately, my dad told Clark about the time I’d tried to run away from home when I was four and had walked all the way to the neighbors’ house, knocking on the door and asking if I could live with them instead, because my mother was refusing to let me have the cookies I wanted. I should have known I wasn’t going to get out of this dinner without an embarrassing story told about me, and I was secretly glad it wasn’t the one about the time my mom brought me to my dad’s first swearing-in and I had a full-on tantrum on the floor of his office.
And now, cleaning up from dinner, they were talking about Clark’s books, making me realize that I really needed to read them—if only so I wouldn’t be left out of any more conversations.
When all the dishes were cleared and the dishwasher was running, my dad gave me permission to “walk Clark to his car” but with a look that told me I wasn’t fooling anyone. “You know, it took you two hours to walk him to his car last time. So maybe you two need to increase your cardio or something?”
“Right,” I said quickly, grabbing Clark’s hand and pulling him toward the door, wanting very much to no longer be having this conversation.
We walked together in the moonlight, his arm slung around my shoulders and my fingers threaded through his, the pulse in his fingertips beating against mine. “I think that went well,” he said after we’d passed out of view of my house, like Clark didn’t want to talk about it until then, like my dad had supersonic hearing.
“I think it did,” I agreed, still a little shocked by this.
“Um, except for all that Secret Service stuff. Do you think he meant it?”
I bit back a laugh. My dad had started off the evening clearly trying to get in Clark’s head, happening to “casually” mention that he knew some of the VP’s Secret Service agents well, and did he know they were trained in all kinds of deadly force, not just firearms? “He was just messing with you,” I said, leaning my head on Clark’s shoulder. He kissed the top of my head, resting his chin there for a moment before we walked on. “So,” I said, turning my head and looking up at him. “Where were we?”
“Wasn’t there a tavern brawl?”
“Isn’t there always?” I replied, and he laughed.
I came back home a little over an hour later, Clark dropping me off in the turnaround, where we weren’t quite able to resist making out for another twenty minutes or so.
I let myself back in the house, half expecting that my dad would be in his office, watching the classic movie channel or reading a book. But he was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of cheesecake in front of him.
“Hey,” I said, smoothing my hair down. I hesitated, then crossed the kitchen toward him.
My dad looked up and smiled at me and pushed his plate slightly toward me. I decided more cheesecake was an excellent idea and grabbed a fork before sliding into the chair across from him. I speared a bite, realizing suddenly how nervous I was. What if my dad had been being his candidate self all night, pretending to get along with Clark while secretly hating him? I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter what my dad thought, knowing all the while that it did.
My dad was just calmly eating his cheesecake, like he had nothing to say, and I decided I wouldn’t ask. I’d just wait for him to tell me what he thought of Clark, but it wasn’t like I needed to know or anything. This lasted exactly one more bite before I blurted out, “So what did you think of him?”
My dad rotated the plate slightly, looking for the perfect bite, before he said, “He seems like a very nice young man. A little mistaken as to where Stagecoach fits in with Wayne’s filmography. But we can’t have everything.”
I rolled my eyes at that, not wanting to let my dad see just how relieved I was. “You freaked him out with all that Secret Service talk,” I said, rotating the plate back toward me as I cut off a piece with my fork. “I think he thought you were serious.”
“Who says I’m not? Though I suppose I didn’t need to say ‘Secret Service,’ ” he mused. “I could have just mentioned some of my old clients. Some very bad people would love to do me a favor.”
I looked up at him, remembering something that had been in the back of my mind ever since the night of Bertie and the chocolates. “Hey, what happened to the drawing that used to hang in the foyer? The one of Stabby Bob?”
My dad looked at me, surprised. “What made you think of him?”
“I was, um . . .” I took a breath. “Clark asked me how you and Mom met.”
Something passed over my dad’s face then, sadness mixed with something happier. “Did I ever tell you she wanted to invite Bob to the wedding?”
“No way.” I hadn’t ever heard this before and was starting to smile, even though there was a slight tremble to it.
“She did. She thought he deserved to be there, being the reason we were introduced.”
“So did he go?”
“Well, he was serving fifteen to twenty by then. So no.” I smiled at that, and neither of us said anything for a moment, but it was like I could tell we were both thinking about my mom. Like just a little bit of her was here in the kitchen with us. My dad cleared his throat, then said, “I can try to find him for you if you want. The drawing,” he said quickly, maybe seeing what I was thinking. “Not Stabby Bob.”
I nodded. “That would be good.” I took a breath, wondering if this was the moment to ask him the question that I’d never stopped wondering about—what he had done with my mother’s Mustang. I hadn’t asked, five years ago, when it didn’t come to our new house with us, and I just hoped that he had saved it rather than sold it off to someone. I was getting ready to ask him about the car, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
TOBY
Toby clearly wanted to know how dinner had gone, but it was easier these days to call or video chat with her rather than text her. But then it buzzed again, and I saw Palmer was texting now too.
PALMER
HOW DID IT GO?
“Let me guess,” my dad said, picking up the cheesecake plate and pushing himself back from the table. “Bri?”
“Toby,” I said, shaking my head. “And Palmer, too.” My phone buzzed again. “And now Bri.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, placing the plate, with at least three good cheesecake bites remaining, in front of me. Then he patted my shoulder quickly, just once, before he turned and headed down the hall to his study.
I watched him go, then picked up my fork, settled back in my seat, and wrote back to my friends.