Call It What You Want(34)

“So you think I should cut him off like everyone else?”

“I think desperate people do desperate things.” He shrugs a little. “You know what his father did. Growing up with that as a role model … you don’t know what that can do to someone, sweetheart.”

I don’t know if my dad’s talking about the millions of stolen dollars or the attempted suicide or both—and I’m not sure if it matters. I swallow. “Okay, Daddy.”

“Do your project. Be kind to him like you always are. But don’t invite him to the house anymore. Okay?”

“Okay.” My voice is soft. “You think … you think he’d do something wrong?”

“I don’t want to think so, but he’s lost everything. So has his mother. From what I understand, they’re hanging on by a thread.”

Rob flinched over a ninety-nine-cent cup of coffee at Wegmans. Tonight, he studied the menu at Taco Taco and then declined dinner, choosing to sip from a glass of water. “I know. I know they are.”

Headlights flash across the storefronts, then Mom pulls her minivan into the space on the other side of where Samantha is still standing.

Dad unlocks his door. “When you’ve lost everything,” he says, “sometimes you don’t see anything wrong with taking a little back.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rob

Mom is making a chicken Caesar salad. Great.

There’s nothing wrong with chicken Caesar salad, but it’s kind of depressing when your stomach thought it was getting tacos and guacamole.

She always cheats and adds bacon, though, which makes it better, and dumps on a ton of generic parmesan cheese. I remember when she’d grate her own, but I know better than to mention that. She’s got some kind of R&B music playing in the kitchen, and she’s singing along while she assembles the food. I want to tell her she’s too old for this kind of music, but it’s rare for the house to feel anything but tense and solemn, so I’m not going to rock the boat.

Dad’s in the family room, his wheelchair pointed at a rerun of The Daily Show. I don’t pay much attention to politics, but I do know he hated political comedy. I wonder if Mom stuck him in front of it on purpose or if the show changed over while she was cooking.

I don’t change the channel.

When I make my way into the kitchen, she’s dancing around, slicing the chicken in rhythm.

“You’re in a good mood,” I say.

“Robby!” She sets the knife to the side, then dances over to me to kiss me on the cheek. “I thought you’d be later. I was going to wrap your salad up.”

“Nope. I’m here.” She dances her way back to the cutting board.

Then I notice the glass of red wine on the counter. The half-empty bottle behind it.

Wow.

I don’t care if she drinks—hell, I’m surprised she’s not lit every night. I have half a mind to ask if I can join her. But there hasn’t been a drop of alcohol in this house since Dad pulled the trigger. I don’t know if it’s a money thing or if she’s worried about what people would think—or some combination of the two—but she’s always been pretty conservative.

“Stop at the liquor store?” I say.

“A client gave my boss a bottle, and he gave it to me.” She’s a little too emphatic on each word, and she goes back to singing along with the music.

I could go the rest of my life without hearing my mother sing about licking someone’s skin.

I clear my throat. “You want me to slice that chicken?”

“Nope, I’ve got it.”

I watch her anyway, worried she’s going to take off a finger.

Then she says, “How’s Connor doing?”

Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any more irritating. “Why the hell would I know how Connor is doing?”

She glances at me over her shoulder while the knife flies through the food. It takes everything I have to keep from snatching it away from her. “You said you were going to run some drills with a friend. I assumed you were meeting up with Connor.”

“No, Mom, no.” I grit my teeth. “I know you’re hammered right now, but maybe tomorrow you’ll remember that Connor’s dad is the one who—”

“Whoa.” She turns and points the knife at me. Not in a threatening way. More to make a point. “First of all, I’m not even a little hammered. Second—”

I snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“Second, what Connor’s dad did and what your dad did shouldn’t have any bearing on your friendship. You boys were thick as thieves.”

“Nice phrasing, Mom.”

She winces, then picks up her glass to take a sip. “When it was all going to hell, I’d hoped you’d be able to lean on him.”

A pause, and her voice softens. “We were all so close, Rob. You know that. It was hard for Bill to blow the whistle—but I don’t blame him. I can’t blame him. What Dad was doing was wrong. Marjorie even came to sit with me the day after the FBI showed up.” Mom’s expression turns solemn. “Did you know that? It took a lot for her to do that. It meant a lot that she didn’t treat me like—”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Connor and I were best friends because our fathers were best friends. I’ve often thought about what I would have done if our situations were reversed: if Bill Tunstall was the one who’d been stealing, and Connor was the shamed son.