Page 77 of Dice & Dekes

I’m contributing by laying place settings at the picnic table when my phone vibrates. I’m surprised when Dante’s name pops up on the screen.

I dart off to hide behind the railing. Dad’s always had a firm “no phones at the table” rule, and even as an adult, I don’t want to get busted. “Hey,” I hiss into the receiver, “I can’t talk right now.”

“No? And here I thought you were all fired up to end this marriage.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“We’re all busy, Knova. This should only take a minute.”

From behind me, Dad calls, “Knova, no calls during dinner!”

He must be loud enough that Dante can hear, because he immediately changes his tune. “Never mind. We’ll talk some other time. Whenever it’s convenient for you. And your father isn’t around.”

Not for the first time, I wonder exactly how hard my dad punched his former boss. Dad might be the only person on Earth who Dante’s genuinely afraid of. “Sounds good,” I say in my sweetest voice. “Have a great day.” I end the call and stuff my phone back into my pocket, switching it to mute as I do.

Over dinner, we mostly talk about Mom’s new album. “It’s a collaboration,” she explains. “I’ll be working with different artists on each track. Every song stands on its own, but when you take them together, they tell a story.”

“Nobody listens to a whole album anymore,” I warn.

“That’s what I said,” Dad agrees.

Mom, who is generally unflappable, smiles knowingly over her wine glass. “So you say. But I’m not going to let that stop me from making the album I want to make.”

Dad gives her the sappiest smile I’ve ever seen. “That’s my girl.”

“When do I get to hear it?” I ask.

Dad’s smile fades. “When you move back in.”

“Right.” I stab at my salad, spearing a few chunks of cucumber and tomato. “About that.”

“I can give you a tour after dinner,” Mom offers. “There are a few upgrades that I think you’ll like, but you might want to paint a wall or two before you start moving your things back in.”

“Who cares about the walls?” Dad asks. “Hell, I’ll come over tonight and help you get started packing.”

My throat closes at the thought of Viktor coming home to an empty condo. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Dad slams his fork down on the table. “It’s time to come home, Knova,” he says, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re playing house with a dipshit who’s never deserved you.”

Boom. There it is. The truth bomb he’s been holding since Viktor was still a sperm in Noah’s ball sack, dropped like a sledgehammer on the picnic table.

“You were supposed to be staying with your brother, so I wouldn’t worry.” He stabs a finger at his chest. “Worried. Party of one.”

I sit back, startled by my dad’s vitriol. He’s usually pretty laid back, but as his infamous tussle with Dante proved, he has a temper. He’s never liked Viktor, but this seems a little extreme, even for him. “I lasted about ten minutes at Knight’s place. I heard something I can’t ever unhear.”

“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Dad grits out.

Mom lays a hand over Dad’s fist. “Cash. She’s an adult. She can make her own choices.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Dad’s brow furrows. “But between the pool house and this shit with the Abbott kid, I’m starting to wonder. Do you need to make an appointment with your therapist?”

I’m frozen in place. Mom, however, is not. She gets to her feet with all the grace of a queen. “Cash Hale, that is no way to talk to, or about, your daughter. I’m going inside.” She turns to me. “Knova, if you’d like to come in, we can eat at the table, and I can promise nobody will yell at you there.”

I appreciate the offer, but I shake my head. “I’m good. I’ll come inside in a bit.”

Mom sweeps away toward the house with her plate in one hand and the wine glass in the other. This isn’t standard behavior for my parents, and it occurs to me that they must have argued about this before. Mom’s always been more easygoing and wants everyone to get along. Dad’s like me. Stubborn and cranky. There’s a reason I was a daddy’s girl growing up—and why we butt heads so often.

Dad folds his hands in front of his face and sits there, taking deep breaths. It’s a cooler evening than I expected, and my windbreaker isn’t cutting it now that the sun’s setting. This frosty reception certainly isn’t helping, but although I’m already shivering, I refuse to break first.

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