Page 23 of Catcher's Lock
“That’s okay.”
I hand over the bag and start to slide in next to him, lulled by his forgiveness, even if I had to bribe it out of him.
“Don’t,” he warns. “Germs.”
Sure.Germs. Nothing to do with the way he’s started to avoid all casual contact with me. Like I’m gonna be offended if I catch him sniffing my hair or freak out if our shoulders bump against each other while walking down the street.
Or like he doesn’t trust me.
Instead of forcing the issue, I settle on the floor and lean my back against the bed at his hip.
“Saw your dad on the way in,” I say, tilting my head to catch his expression. The plastic spoon stalls halfway to his mouth.
“Did he…talk to you?”
“Not really. He offered me a beer.”
His shoulders relax with a rueful shake of his head.
“He used to do that all the time when I was about ten.”
Maybe it’s the fever, but I swear he sounds almost nostalgic.
“You been a secret lush this whole time?” I tease.
“Hardly. My mom found out and totally freaked. I never liked the taste of it, anyway, but as a kid, it made me feel special. Stupid, right?”
“Not really. He’s your dad. Makes sense that you’d like it when he paid attention to you.”
“He’s the one who got me started on Marvel movies. Bought the subscription to Disney+, even though my mom said we didn’t need any more streaming services. We’d hang out on Sunday afternoons and make popcorn and watchIron ManandThorwhile the twins were off at rehearsals, or whatever they were into.”
“That sounds pretty cool. My parents dragged me out to cafés while they drank wine with their friends. If we watched a movie, it was usually some French flick. Or a documentary.”
“He used to be fun when he was drunk,” Josha admits, shame curling off him in dull waves at the confession.
I hope he thinks I’m a fun drunk, but after yesterday, I doubtit, so I don’t ask.
I am glad not all his memories of his dad are crappy.
“You know what’s funny?” I ask. “Nobody gives a shit about kids drinking in Europe. First time I was drunk, I was eleven at the Circolo wrap party with three other kids. None of our parents noticed until it was time to take us home. It’s only this year that my dad’s started acting all concerned if I come home smelling like alcohol.”
“He’s worried about you.”Like I am, he doesn’t add.
“I’m fine.”I’m a disaster. “He just doesn’t have anything better to obsess about with my mom and Milla gone.” My dad tries to act like he doesn’t miss them, but I’m better at faking it.
“You know you’re lucky to have a dad who cares.”
“You know you’re lucky to have a mom,” I retort, because I’m that kind of asshole.
“You have a mom. She calls you all the time.”
“Don’t try to tell me it’s the same.”
“No…I’m not. But…should we arm wrestle for who has the worst parents?” He’s humoring me, because it’s not really a contest, but I love him a little more for letting me pretend.
“I would totally kick your ass.”
With a snort, he tosses the empty soup carton onto his nightstand. “Only because I’m sick.”
