If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(7)

Hannah nodded. “So you want your usual?”

“You know it.” I tossed three bucks on the counter and waited for the to-go cup of deliciousness. Totally worth it.

I raised the tea in salutation. “Have an awesome day, my friend.”

After running back across the street, I crouched to unlock my bike and then poured the chai into my insulated water bottle to take with me.

Nothing beats biking on spring mornings like this, when the cool breeze whips along the bay and rustles the budding leaves of the oak trees, although they also make me miss my dad even more. I remembered the day we’d transferred the American sycamore seedling from the nursery pot to our backyard. Early April . . . typical overcast skies threatening rain. A chilly breeze whipped across the yard, but I hadn’t minded because my dad was smiling at me and we were listening to Coldplay. I’d been ten years old, and it was the first time I’d introduced him to new music. We’d spent a lot of time outdoors, from snelling hooks on the water to tending to the vegetable garden in the yard, talking about life and laughing at most of it.

A massive heart attack that no one saw coming took him from us almost a year ago. His one vice—those damn cigarettes—had literally killed him. I’m the last person to criticize anyone for a vice, ’cause I’ve got plenty. But moderation, people. Moderation.

I’d spent the last year grasping at anything—including Max—to fill the void my dad left behind, but the fact that nothing was working was another sign that I needed to change the direction of my life.

As the gentrified part of town faded behind me, the familiar streets of my youth prompted a grin. I’d been biking these old roads since getting Kevin’s hand-me-down red trike twenty-odd years ago. My first kiss—Todd Brewer—had lived there on Orchard Drive. Haley Scott, a friend who’d moved to California in tenth grade, had lived there on Aspen Lane. And after I left home, my dad and I had met regularly at Lou’s Diner, our favorite spot for coffee and pie despite its broken tableside jukeboxes and desperate need of a new coat of paint. This side of town held its history and its generations-old families. Not the Audi-driving dandies.

I turned the bend onto Oak Court to reach my apartment building, locking my bike in the beat-up rack out front. I’ve toured interesting cities all over Europe, but nothing quite beats home.

Home sweet home.

Or not, as I was reminded when I passed by Mrs. Wagner’s apartment door on my way up to the third floor. I’d lost count of how many cats she kept in there, but the odor that leaked through the gap beneath her door gagged me worse than anything Max let rip after a big meal at Olé Mole.

When I reached into my backpack for my keys, my yoga bag fell off my shoulder. It’d been that kind of morning. Mo barked at the door from inside. My sister’s fancy security system had nothing on my fifteen-pound Zuchon.

When I opened the door, I knelt so he could lick me.

“Fluffy McFlufferson. So many kisses!” I squealed, rolling onto my back to play with him for a few seconds. He might be overdue for a grooming appointment, but the retreat registration fee meant I’d need to teach a few more classes to pay for a grooming and my phone bill. On the upside, when Mo’s hair got this long, he looked like a puffball, thus the nickname.

“Hey,” Max called from his spot on the sofa.

He was still sprawled there in his boxer briefs, remote in hand, exactly like when I’d left two hours earlier. Coming home to the sight of those carved abs and thighs and then dive-bombing the couch with him in a tangle of arms and legs used to excite me. Now I wanted to throw my yoga mat at his head and bellow, “Get a job!”

I gave Mo one last hug before I stood. “I thought you’d be showered by now. We should hit the road if you want to get to Philly in time to take your dad to lunch and not have to dine and dash.”

“We’re not going.” Max didn’t even look at me.

I glanced at the TV to see what was so captivating that he couldn’t tear himself away to have a conversation about the sudden change in plans. Old School again. One Will Ferrell movie was more than enough for me, but Max could spend hours on end rewatching them.

“Why not?” I leaned the mat against the wall between the entertainment unit and the corner cluttered with Max’s old notebooks, charcoals and art pads, and other abandoned hobby supplies. The same corner I’d been meaning to get around to cleaning because none of my attempts to help him get his mojo back had succeeded. I mean, if a little rejection defeated him, he needed to find a nonartistic career. “Is your dad sick?”

Charlie could be a bit loud, but he’d always been kind to me in a way I’d particularly missed this past year without my dad.

“In the head, maybe.” Max snickered at his unfunny joke.

God, he could use a haircut, too. Who doesn’t appreciate a small man bun? But his had become a knotted mess.

He still hadn’t done more than toss me a glance at that point, so my temper started tapping on my chest the way Principal Kentworth used to tap on his desk whenever I’d gotten in trouble at school.

I crossed my arms. “Hey, Max. Get your hand out of your pants long enough to tell me what’s going on. I’d like to know why you’ve unilaterally changed our plans.”

Max heaved a sigh the likes of which should be performed only in truly trying circumstances. “We had an argument, and now I don’t feel like celebrating his stupid birthday.”