Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Dad,” I say and he hugs me roughly before sitting down and leaning back with a wary smile. “Where’ve you been? You look tan.”
“Spain,” he says and I doubt that’s true. He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, mostly salt these days. I wonder when he’ll start to color it. “What’d your mother tell you?”
“That you were working. You know Mom.”
She’s good at keeping her mouth shut.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been busy, that’s all. Following some leads. Working some angles. Boy, where is that waitress? I’m thirsty.”
He orders a beer and flirts with the young girl working our table before taking out his phone and tapping away. I let him get this little display out of his system—this song and dance, this gesture toward respectability. He’s always working and following leads but we both know that’s slang for avoiding the consequences of his own actions.
If I was into gambling, I’d bet all my money that my father’s been off hiding somewhere in the Caribbean, holed up in some shack with no Wi-Fi and no cell service and no way anyone could possibly locate him. Maybe he really was in Spain—but it wasn’t some sightseeing trip. I don’t know why he’s hiding or who he’s running from, but the sleazy way he smiles at me suggests I’m about to find out.
“How have you been, Warren?” he asks, adjusting his watch. He crosses his legs and slouches back, one arm over the back of the chair on his left, looking at ease like a king holding court.
“Been fine,” I say. Waiting for him to get on with it.
“Got a job?”
“I’m working something. Just like you.” I arch an eyebrow at him.
“That’s good, that’s really good.” He nods to himself. “You always were a hard worker. I know these past few years have been hard, but we’ve been proud of you, you know that?”
I don’t bother responding. I’ve heard this before and I’ll hear it a dozen more times. I know what’s coming next and my stomach’s a twisting mess of anxiety. I wonder if this is going to be the time that I finally tell him no, that I finally tell him to go solve his own problems and to stop shoving them down my throat. But it’s been years and years of this, of my father disappearing for weeks and months at a time only to turn up with stories of exotic locations and incredible business opportunities and tragedy. He’s always close, so close, always inches away from that one last investment, and every time it falls through there are a dozen excuses and a thousand broken hearts in his wake.
None of those excuses are ever I’m a fake and a cheat and an addict.
He chats about a Spanish winery he visited as the waitress brings out our food. He talks about a bull fight, meeting a professional Spanish boxer, about drinking all night on a beach with a bunch of English Premier Division soccer players. I listen to his stories and almost believe him. Dad’s a lot of things, but most of all he’s a storyteller, a man that lives for moments like this where he can unwind and spin his tale and let it all come to life for a captive audience, and I’ve always been as captive as it gets when it comes to him. Despite myself, I love it when Dad tells stories.
But it never lasts. His charisma, his humor, it fades. It always does, and I’m ready when he finishes his meal, sips his third beer, and leans toward me.
“Listen, Warren, that winery I mentioned before—”
“Let me guess,” I say, interrupting him. “They need a small investment to buy some special grapes. Or maybe you owe them money? Maybe you already dumped the last investment I gave you, which was for what, exactly? A Russian Oligarch’s stolen yacht? Just a little cash to get it out of impound and we’ll be rich again.”
His eyes widen. “Warren—”
“Dad, I give you money. I’ve always given you money. I listen to your stories, and I laugh and smile because they’re fun and you’re good at telling them. But I know there’s no winery. I know there’s no yacht and never was. Who do you really owe?”
His nostrils flare. “Warren.” His tone darkens. This is the dad I know best. The one he keeps hidden from the rest of the world beneath his charm and his smile and his flashy second-hand clothes. “You can’t talk to your father that way. What’s gotten into you?”
“I’m tired,” I say, and they’re the most honest words I’ve ever spoken. “How much do you need?”
He considers me. I can criticize him all I want but my father’s always been an extremely good judge of character. When it comes to money, he’s hopeless, but people make sense to him, and I’ve always been his favorite target for study. He speaks me like a second language, and I hate him so much for it and love him even more. My father’s a titan in my life, a towering figure, a man without equal. I’ve looked up to him for years and years, and still do, even long after I realized what he really is.