Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(54)

“Shhh.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at me and leads the way downstairs. “I don’t want your dad to hear!”

Aw. She’s so easily embarrassed but trust me; Dad’s going to love this. Celine is one of his favorite people. Still, I keep my mouth shut because she’s spooked, and I know feelings aren’t her thing. We just had a moment and now she needs space. (God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.)

We reach the kitchen in adult silence and find Dad chopping spring onions at the island while staring at us with raised eyebrows (which is very poor kitchen safety; eyes on the knife, Dad).

“Hi,” I say.

His eyebrows somehow get higher.

“Obviously,” I announce, “Mason is a liar.”

Mason, who is eating a rice cake over the sink, says, “Mo am mot.” Crumbs spray across the front of his red Notts Forest shirt.

I eye him in disgust. “How are we related?”

He flips black curls out of his narrowed eyes. “You’re afopded.”

Dad sighs heavily. “Mason, don’t talk with your mouth full, stop tormenting your brother, and go upstairs.”

Mason snorts and heads for the door.

“By the way,” Dad calls after him, “you’re not going to no party tonight.”

Mason whirls around. “What?”

“Remember our discussion,” Dad reminds him, “about what good men do and do not say about ladies?”

Aha! Yes! I remember this! He is so screwed.

“I wasn’t talking about Celine!” Mason wails. “I was talking about Brad!”

“But you were talking about Celine,” I say solemnly. “You were violating her bodily autonomy with misogynistic lies for your own ends, Mason. You were treating her as collateral damage in a war between brothers. Mum is going to be so disappointed in you when she gets home.”

Mason sputters. Celine looks very much like she is biting her tongue bloody, trying not to laugh. Dad seems amused, but he rolls his eyes and says, “That’s enough, thank you, Bradley. Mason, go upstairs.”

Mason huffs and stomps away.

“Now,” Dad says seriously, doing that I Am Being Parental thing he does with his face. “You two. What’s going on?”

He’s asking a direct question and meeting my eyes. I try to mentally solder my jaw together, but I can already feel myself cracking under the fatherly pressure. “On? What do you mean? Nothing is…going.” What is this sentence missing? Oh yeah. “…On,” I add.

Celine eyes me like I’ve been abducted and replaced with a Brad-shaped scarecrow. Then she says, “I should head home. I told Giselle I’d make dinner tonight. Bye, Trev.” She flicks an almost shy glance at me. “Um. Bye, Brad.” Then she scurries off.

I follow her into the hallway so I can lock the door. “Cel—”

“Sorry,” she whispers, “but I really don’t know how to talk to dads.” Then she vanishes in a puff of smoke, leaving me like a traitor to face the music alone. Which is fine, because Dad’s obviously gonna tell Mum about this and Mum will definitely tell Neneh.

When I get back to the kitchen, Dad’s finished the onions and started on the scotch bonnet. I hop onto one of the stools at the marble island and watch his hands move, waiting for the conversation to start. When it doesn’t—when he just keeps chopping with this grim expression, and I start to wonder if I’m seriously in trouble—I crack like an egg. “You do know Mason’s full of it. Right? Dad. Come on. Right?”

Also, I have had sex before. Dad knows I’ve had sex before because Mason stole my jeans and stretched them out with his massive quads and then put them in the wash basket without checking the pockets and Mum found a condom in there and I could’ve let him take the fall but I very nobly admitted it was mine, so really, you’d think he’d have my back every once in a while, but he doesn’t because he’s an enormous douche.

Dad laughs and finally looks at me. “I should hope he is, Bradley Thomas.”

“So what’s wrong?” I reach over to take the bulb of garlic, grab a press from the drawer, and make myself useful.

Dad hums. “You and Celine, huh?”

We should talk about it, she said. But then she put her tongue in my mouth, so…I shift in my seat and peel the first clove. “Yeah?”

Dad sighs again. Puts his knife down. Gives me his full and serious attention. “Is that a good idea?”

My frown is so intense it hurts my head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“This is your last year of school,” Dad says. “Law is a very demanding course.”

Law, he says, like it’s a done deal, like I’m an Olympian who wants this so bad it hurts and he’s the hardworking coach watching my back. Of course this would come up. Of course.

“Competition is high and…final exams, that’s a lot of pressure,” he continues. “Trust me. I remember it well, and I never had to deal with the extra…difficulties you have.”

I put down the garlic and try to keep up. “Is this an I’m worried about how nuts you are speech?”

“Bradley.” He scowls. “I’ve told you not to say that.”

I ignore him. “Because I thought I was doing good. Am I not doing good?” I feel good. Or I did, before my dad started talking in riddles.