Confessions of a Bad Boy(70)

I sit down, adjusting the aviators I’m wearing to cover the bruise.

“I hate this place,” I groan. “It’s like Captain Kirk and Captain Ahab decided to go into business together.”

“Uh-huh,” my dad says, assessing my mood. “What’s with the sunglasses? Late night?”

“Um…something like that,” I say, fumbling.

He eyes me a little, but before he can say anything else his attention is completely taken by the tall model-slash-waitress who steps up to our table.

“Hi there, welcome to Toaster’s. Can I take your order?”

I see the look of delight that comes over my dad’s face as he takes full advantage of the girl’s tight shirt and skinny jeans.

“Well hello young lady,” he says, smiling back at her. “That’s an incredible tattoo you’ve got there.” He takes her arm softly and angles it to get a better look at the graphic tribal design, and I try not to puke as I bury my head in the menu.

“Thanks,” the girl laughs. “It’s kinda new, I’ve only had it a few months.”

“Oh, nice. I hear they’re pretty addictive, tattoos. You getting any more?”

I glare at him for a second, but I may as well not be there. He’s got ignoring me down to an art, with twenty-nine solid years of practice under his belt.

“I’ll have the, uh, grass-fed organic cheese steak with hot peppers and a water,” I interject. “Dad? You want the same?”

He breaks away from the girl, a brief flash of frustration crossing his face until he processes what I just asked him.

“Sure,” he says, turning back to smile one more time and send her off with a wink. “But make my drink a beer. Anything from the Golden Road brewery. I’m in the mood for a little buzz.”

The girl grins and turns to scribble the order in her pad as she walks away, my dad’s eyes laser-focused on the sway of her narrow hips.

“What’s the problem?” he asks, his voice heavy, all the light-hearted humor he had for the waitress gone completely.

I pretend to take a lot of care sliding the menu back into the condiment holder so I don’t have to meet his gaze.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he answers, quickly. “What’s wrong? Is it me?”

“No. It’s not you.”

“I know it’s not me talking to the waitress, ’cause you’ve had a face like a melted waxwork since you got in here.”

I sigh deeply and run a hand roughly through my hair, realize how unusually messy it is, and that I probably look like shit right now.

“Forget about it.”

“It’s a girl, right?” he says, pointing a finger at me before jabbing it and putting it away. “Of course it is. It’s always a girl.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I ask, trying to keep it together.

“No. Because it’ll be like talking to a zombie. Come on. Tell me what’s going on.”

I sigh and stare at him, letting him see how frustrated he’s getting me.

“You gonna make me guess?” he says, digging his heels in. “I can sit here and guess all day, though I doubt it would take me too many tries.”

I stare at the table, then look around the restaurant. It’s funny. Before Jessie, all I saw were single women everywhere, but now, after everything that’s happened, it’s like all I see are couples.

“Okay. Fine. Yes. It’s a girl.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face like he’s my therapist. “So what? She doesn’t like you back?”

“No. Not that. Let’s just say I had her, and f*cked it all up.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “So forget her. Find a new one. What’s the big deal?”

I snort a little, then shake my head at him.

“You think I want to feel like this? Forgetting someone isn’t that easy.”

He laughs a little, deep, throaty, but still light and easy. The kind of laugh you develop from years of partying.

“Nate, you were always too intense. Let me tell you something: the only thing holding you back right now from feeling as good as you can be is the past. Your baggage. The world is full of girls, too many for you to get hung up on just one. When everything you know is causing you to struggle, you’ve got to start trusting in the unknown instead.”

I allow myself a small smile at the sheer ridiculousness of what I’m hearing. The comprehensive absurdity of sitting here, with my father, hearing him say those words.

“Where did you hear that?”

He nods and digs around in his pocket to pull out his phone.

“I’m gonna send you a link. You need to watch this guy. ‘Bad Boy’ his name is. The guy’s got this shit figured out. I haven’t seen a guy talk as much sense since the seventies.”

“Dad, wait…” I say, feeling a wave of discomfort as he starts jabbing at his phone.

“And you can bet this guy is getting way too much * to be dragging himself around looking like a mess in the way you’re doing.”

“Dad,” I say again, pushing his phone away, “I know about the ‘Bad Boy.’ He doesn’t know what the f*ck he’s talking about.”