Page 44 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

Dad knew all about George-Arthur Milton.

Of course he did.

Roderick was a blabbermouth and he’d spent the better part of the last five years informing all of us about every one of his exes, George included. No one had everasked—but no one had wanted to make him feel bad by shutting him down. Hurting Roderick would be like kicking a puppy.

It was just wrong.

“Which one?” Dad asked.

A fair question, considering.

“George-Arthur,” we both said in unison.

“Well, that’s a mouthful,” Dad chuckled. “Are his parents fans of British Aristocracy?” he asked, poking fun at the origin of the name.

“Not that I know of,” I said, pleased that we’d gotten far enough off-topic that I wouldn’t have to admit that I liked him. At least…not yet. “Mr. Milton doesn’t seem like the kind of man who’d appreciate tea.” Tall and severe-looking, the Milton patriarch would look downright hilarious sipping a cuppa over his morning paper.

Not to judge.

“How tit-tea-lating,” Dad giggled. He finally figured out his camera, swearing a little as he pulled the phone back far enough we could actually see his face. Dark eyebrows greeted us, as well as twinkling brown eyes. He sported the same shit-eating grin and black hair that June and I shared—only Dad’s was full of gray now, at his temples, by his widow's peak, and all throughout his beard.

“Hardy har har,” June snorted. He looked frail in his silk robe, tied tight enough to strangle, so the only bare skin visible was his throat. I wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap so he could never be injured again.

“You said tit,” I pointed out, only for Dad to huff and glare at me.

“I did not,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was smiling, though. I loved it when I made him smile. Behind him, I could see the mahogany wood walls of his office, leather-bound books lining the shelves along the back.

“You kinda did,” June smirked, to which I responded by high-fiving her.

“Why’re you working?” I frowned, glancing at the time. “You’re supposed to be resting.” Dad wasn’t allowed to be doinganythingin that damn office.

“I’m not going to keel over and die because I fill out a damn paper.” Dad rolled his eyes.

“Too soon,” I said, because it was.

“The doctor okayed me for light exercise.”

“Since when is working exercise?”

“Exercise of themind, Alex.” Dad looked far too pleased that he understood the meme I’d just referenced. He was a regular old “meme king”. Spent an hour on social media every day so that he could drop random references in conversation, all because he wanted to look “hip.” His words, not mine.

The man was a riot.

“Maybe you should put that on my gravestone,” Dad said. “Alexander James. Father. Philanthropist. And then below that, in cursive,too soon. Maybe with a picture of that cat. The mean one.”

“Grumpy Cat?” June said dryly.

“No. I don’t think that’s right.”

They argued about memes for another five minutes before Dad finally forced us back on track enough to hear about the party. But June and I could tell his energy was waning, so she didn’t heckle me more or bring up George again. I made sure to remind him to go to bed and that pushing himself was not the answer right now—and he agreed—but we had no idea if that meant he’d actually listen.

When we hung up, the mood was bittersweet.

The car wreck that’d broken his ribs, leg, and left arm had left June andme untethered. It’d been a close call. A reminder of mortality that neither of us had been prepared for. Especially when Dad’s concussion had been so severe he was disoriented for a few days, and neither of us was sure he even recognized us.

June’s phone sat silent and black on the bed between us. She leaned into my side, one of her arms wrapping around my middle, cheek smooshed against my bicep. We didn’t speak for a long time, letting the silence mend the fractures left behind by my father’s absence. Dad’s bruises had healed, but we hadn’t recovered from seeing him battered.

“Alex?” June said eventually as I lay my cheek on the top of her head.

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