One of Us Is Next(65)
“Messed with it? Are you serious?” I lean forward, intrigued, and drain half my beer before remembering I have to go home after this. I set the cup down at the corner of Nate’s desk and look more closely at the photos. They still look like nothing to me.
Nate shrugs. “Your dad thinks it’s weird, too, but the company working on this was crap at their job and left shitty records. So we can’t be sure of anything.” He taps his pencil again. “Your dad really knows his stuff. Guys at work are always talking about how other companies cut corners, but he never does.”
My first instinct is to be petty and say I wouldn’t know. But there’s an almost wistful tone to Nate’s voice, like he’s imagining what it would’ve been like to grow up with a dad who runs a respected business instead of one who abandoned his kid for a whiskey bottle. And when you put it like that—yeah, my father issues pretty much pale in comparison. So I just say, “He really likes working with you. He tells me that all the time.”
Nate half smiles as the door bursts open, startling us both. Concert T-shirt Guy leans against the frame, looking flushed and sweaty as he points toward Nate. “Dude,” he slurs. “Hypothetically speaking. If a bunch of us decide to streak through the neighborhood, are you in?”
“No,” Nate says, rubbing a hand across his face as he turns to me with a weary expression. “If I were you, I’d take that as my cue to leave. Trust me.”
* * *
—
When I get home from Nate’s, my dad is alone at our kitchen table. It’s the same table we’ve had since I was a kid, a wooden monstrosity that could seat all seven of us comfortably. I used to be squished in the middle next to the wall—the worst, hardest-to-access spot for the youngest kid. I can sit anywhere I want now, since there are only three of us left in the house, but somehow I still find myself squeezing into that chair every night.
Dad is writing on a yellow legal pad, surrounded by a pile of what look like blueprints. He’s wearing a Myers Construction T-shirt that used to be black but has been washed so many times that it’s turned pale gray. “You’re home late,” he says without looking up. Fritz is snoring lightly at his feet, paws twitching like he’s dreaming about taking a walk.
I go to the refrigerator and pull out a Sprite. I need to wash the taste of sour beer out of my mouth. “My internship is really busy,” I say. “Since Eli’s getting married next week.”
“Right.” Dad scratches out a note on his pad. “Good to see you stick with something, I guess.”
I pop the top from my soda and take a gulp, watching him over the rim as something inside me deflates. Your dad really knows his stuff, Nate said tonight. It’s true, but Dad never shares any of that with me. All I get are these pointed little comments. I usually ignore them, but tonight I’m not in the mood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Dad keeps writing. “Your mother said you quit that play you’re in.”
“So?” I prod. “Why do you care? You haven’t been to one of my plays in years.”
He finally looks up, and I’m struck by how deeply etched the lines in his face are. I could swear they weren’t so prominent yesterday. “I care because when you make a commitment to something, you should stick with it.”
Yeah. You should. Unless you’re the laughingstock of the entire school and being onstage is only going to make it a hundred times worse. I would’ve ruined that play for everyone in it, even though most of them don’t see it that way. Lucy doesn’t; she’s still not talking to me.
And if I’m being totally honest, it wasn’t that hard a decision to make. I stopped caring about acting a while ago, but neither of my parents noticed. Dad acts like he wants me to change, but he doesn’t really. Any time I try something different, he dismisses it.
But I can’t tell my father that. I can’t tell him anything.
“I had too much else going on,” I say. He lets out a small, dismissive snort and goes back to his paperwork. Resentment swirls through my gut, making me bolder than usual. Or maybe it’s that half beer I had. “Did you say something?” I ask. “I couldn’t hear you.”
Dad looks up, eyebrows raised. He waits a beat, and when I don’t look away, he says, “If you think you have too much going on, with the number of video games you play and the amount of time you spend on your phone doing God knows what, then I pity your future employer when you have a real job.”
My stomach drops. Jesus. Say what you really mean, Dad. He basically just called me useless. “Until Proven is a real job. I work hard there. I work hard in general. You’d know that, if you’d ever given me a shot working with you.”
He frowns. “You’ve never had any interest in working with me.”
“You never asked!” I blurt out. “It’s a family business, supposedly, but you treat Nate Macauley like he’s more of a son than I am.” My mother must not be at home, because my voice is rising and there’s no sign of her. Usually, this is when she steps in to play peacemaker. I gesture at the blueprints, my head still full of what Nate said in his room. “You won’t even tell me what’s up with the mall site investigation, and I was there when Brandon died!”
Dad’s face gets thunderous. Uh-oh. That was the wrong card to play. I want to sink into the floor as he leans forward and points his pencil at me.