Daddy's Day Page 5

“Well, Dunn, you more than anyone should know that, when you’re in the championship game, you start with your star player. You don’t play Ryan Leaf when you’ve got Roger Staubach,” Eric says with an equally condescending tone.

  Matty glares at Eric with displeasure, and Eric glares back, undaunted.

  Part of me wants to stick up for Matthew—he’s the closest thing to a long-term boyfriend I’ve had as an adult—but he walked directly into Eric’s comment. And if he can’t take it, then he should be adult enough not to say anything—especially around two of Dylan’s best friends.

  “So, what brings you by, Matt?”

  I have to change the topic quickly before things devolve and words turn into punches.

  Matt’s gaze lingers on Eric for a moment longer than I’m comfortable with before he looks over at me and clears his throat.

  “Well, I wanted to see if you were up for joining me tonight for dinner after I’m done with work.”

  Eric lets out a mix of a scoff and a laugh as he’s mid-drink of his pint.

  “Dinner? Where?”

  “I was thinking we could order Vinnie’s and eat at my place.”

  Vinnie’s Pizza and eating at Matt’s place is code for ‘booty call.’ And it’s usually the beginning of us getting back together for the hundredth time.

  And, admittedly, I’d be game for it.

  I know that Matt and I, as a long-term couple, just aren’t compatible. We’re two different people who want two different things in life.

  But I’d be lying if the sex isn’t great.

  That’s just not enough this time around.

  There’s just too much shit going in my life, like me possibly losing my job—and Dylan’s return, too, if I’m being completely honest with myself—to even give any real attention to a booty call.

  As nice a distraction as it would be, I can’t handle the roller coaster of emotions and drama that will come after it.

  No, for the time being, I need to focus on trying to save the school and my job.

  “Honestly, Matt, as good as Vinnie’s sounds, I’m just not in the mood. Truthfully, I’m just going to hunker down with Eric and Jess tonight after the game and come up with some strategies.”

  “Oh, well, I can help out with that. It’s not like I don’t have any experience with the law myself.”

  Eric stifles a laugh—rather poorly—and Jessie nudges him in the ribs.

  “We…I appreciate the offer Matt. But honestly, we’ve got this. Really.”

  “Alright. Well…the offer is there.”

  I don’t blame him for sounding annoyed and a bit defeated, but I really don’t have the patience to deal with his hurt feelings right now.

  “If we need anything, we’ll call. I promise.”

  Matt nods and steps away from the table. I can see that he wants to say more, but the look I give him tells him to just walk away.

  Thankfully, he does just that and leaves us in peace.

  I turn my eyes back up to the television just in time to see the Cowboys score another touchdown.

  All the shit with Matt goes out the window, and I let myself get lost in the enjoyment once more as I let out a cheer of celebration.

  Chapter 9

  Dylan

  As I walk through the impeccable, maze-like landscaping on my way to the swimming pool, I don’t feel like I’m home in any sense of the word.

  The first half of my life was spent on this massive, sprawling estate, and naturally, during that time, I got to know the ins and outs of the property very well. But the years since I left have been spent building my own life, far away from here, never looking back.

  Those years are much fresher in my memory. It almost feels like I’m walking around some rarely-used vacation home, a place I’m vaguely familiar with, even if I feel no connection to it.

  Of course, what makes a home is the people who live there. There’s now a giant, gaping absence in the heart and soul of this place, and this home will never be whole again.

  My Fendi navigator sunglasses allow me to look straight up at the perfect, sunny skies through the southern live oaks overhead.

  This isn’t a home anymore. Not to me, anyway. It’s just a property.

  Memories keep coming back as I walk around, though. Some of them are so faint and formless, they vanish right away. Others are so vivid I wouldn’t hesitate to use them in testimony, if I ever needed to.

  Looking at the ancient outdoor bench set a few feet away from the pool, some very clear recollections are surfacing. It’s where I used to sit and read and study for hours at a time.

  The white paint is chipping off the bench’s floral cast iron patterns, like it’s been for decades. But when I sit down, it’s surprisingly as comfortable as I remember.

  While I was high school football royalty everywhere else; on this bench, I was a super serious, studious little overachiever who made sure I had the grades to back up my athletic records.

  “Couldn’t let up the pressure on myself for a second,” I muse out loud, smiling.

  I didn’t spend all my time out here alone, of course. There was one—and only one—other person who ever sat on this bench with me.

  Back then, she was more than a welcome distraction whenever she would show up.

  Fuck, there are a few more lucid memories coming to the forefront—but now that’s a distraction that I can’t welcome.

  I have work to do.

  Fifteen years after the last time I sat in this poolside bench, I came out here to study. Except this time, there’s no heavy bag of textbooks and notebooks—all I have is my smartphone, and that should be all I need for now.

  After opening my phone’s browser, my first stop is the Fredericksburg Standard Radio Post website.

  I’m happy to find that the local paper even has a website, and I’m not surprised to see the top few stories are about high school sports.

  Apparently, the FHS girls’ track team won silver at the State Championship, and the varsity boys’ team is heading to their own State tourney next week.

  Hey, you’re in the paper.

  I’ll never forget the way Brooke greeted me the first time she visited me out here after we started dating—she had been here plenty of times before then—I was lost in some civics textbook, and then she was just there, next to me, waving around a copy of the Standard.

  You can’t even tell it’s me.

  There was a photo of me, in full gear, on the front page. I tried to be modest about it.

  You’re name’s right there, silly. And you can tell that’s your handsome face under the helmet.

  Dammit. If I’m not careful, these memories could eat up the rest of the day.

  It’s a side effect of rarely coming back here, probably.

  An actual surprise visit from Brooke would be less distracting at this point.

  That would be something, after fifteen years. Just to see her here again.

  Fuck, I just saw her here after the service, and I need to stop going down this road filled with ghosts of days gone by.

  I scroll past the sports stories atop the Standard website to see headlines about a local election and a car show and the annual tractor ride this weekend.

  When I don’t see any mention of the school closing in the first few headlines, I start to think that maybe it’s all just hearsay. This town’s not immune to gossip, and rumors spread faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind.

  “Fuck!” I exclaim with a much heavier drawl than usual.

  About a dozen headlines down, the relevant stories begin.

  Imminent Fredericksburg High Closure Sparks Concerns

  FHS Closing Confirmed

  FHS Faculty Claim School Shuttering Doors for Good

  Okay, it’s beyond a rumor at this point, but even though I already knew that, I’m getting that weird stomach-sinking feeling again as I tap on the first headline.

  The article starts loading, and I take a deep breath. Before I read a word of it, I ne
ed to get into a more rational head space.

  “Looks like you could use a drink.”

  My father’s voice seems to come out of nowhere, but for whatever reason, it’s not startling at all. The smell of scotch hanging in the air must’ve subliminally let me know he was here.

  I look over my left shoulder to see him sitting casually on the bench, holding out a glass of whisky.

  “How long have you been there?” I ask.

  “It seems like an eternity, watching you get lost in that screen.”

  I take the glass from his hand, only so he doesn’t have to hold it anymore. His own glass is resting precariously on the bench arm.

  “I’m doing research.”

  Without thinking, I take in a sip of the scotch. I don’t recognize it, but it’s good and mild, with notes of sherry, nutmeg, and cinnamon.

  “Is this how New York attorneys do research? With a telephone on a bench?”

  “Sometimes.” I take another sip and glance at the article I’ve loaded, growing anxious to get any more information. “This is pro bono anyway. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

  “You’re driven, no matter what.” My father looks at the pristine swimming pool for a moment—I might be imagining the sadness in his eyes. “But you should never work for free.”

  “I don’t consider it work. I just promised Eric I’d figure out what’s going on with Fredericksburg High.”

  My dad laughs, I think. It’s an odd sound that’s close to him literally saying ha.

  “That’s not a good use of your time here, Pickle.”

  “Do you even know about this? I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard, but are you following it at all?”

  “It’s not worth following. It’s certainly not something to concern yourself with.”

  Dad rescues his glass from the bench arm and holds his scotch in front of him for a second before taking a tiny quaff.

  There’s something in my father’s voice that I recognize. Not from him, but from those I’ve grilled on the witness stand.

  “When I read every article I can find about my old school closing, and when I go beyond that and start talking to people about it, what am I going to find out?”

  My father downs his whisky in one giant gulp.

  “You sure you want to go down this road, Pickle?”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Pops?”

  Dad’s brow furrows as he looks at me, as if measuring me like we’re sitting across from each other in a boardroom. “You must’ve learned a thing or two up north after all.”

  “Or maybe I picked up a few tricks or two from you when you weren’t looking. What’s going on?”

  My father’s lips quirk upward into a smirk, but it’s not a smirk I’m pleased to see. “The town has stalled with the change in the times. There are far too many wasted opportunities here. And a public school is a waste of valuable real estate.”

  I look down at my hand wrapped around my phone, my grip getting so tight that I might break it. As calmly as I can, I slip the phone back into my pocket.

  As much as I’m trying to appear in control, I can’t hide the quiver in my voice or the way my entire face is flushing with ire.

  “What are you doing to our town’s high school?”

  “It’s just a school, Pickle. There’s room for the students elsewhere. Frankly, your reaction is mystifying.”

  My eyes are glued to the tiles by my feet. I can’t even get myself to look at him, at my own father, in the eye.

  “What are you doing to the school, Pops?”

  “Dylan,” his voice grows serious as he uses my actual name, but then he stops.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Luxury shopping. This is the time to strike, and that’s the spot. There’s no better real estate for a shopping center in town. It’s the only spot for it, really.”

  Now I look up, and I see him looking at me calmly, coolly. He was prepared to tell me about this long before the subject was broached.

  “You’re tearing down Fredericksburg High to build a mall?”

  “Don’t use that word, son. It’s not a mall, it’s a luxury shopping destination. At least, that’s how I billed it to the state.”

  “The state? You really orchestrated this all yourself?”

  “Of course, I did. Somebody had to. With the increasing wine tourism every year, it was inevitable. I’m glad I did. This will be the epicenter of all that revenue. We’re talking real wealth here, Pickle. Don’t you understand?”

  Standing up, I feel the immediate shock dissipate, replaced by a new, powerful determination.

  “I understand. Perfectly.”

  Without looking back, I start striding forward—away from my father, away from this estate, and towards the town to find my friends—to find Brooke—and shine a light on the truth so we can figure out where to go from here.

  Chapter 10

  Brooke

  After letting out my last cheer of victory, I enjoy listening to the mix of shouted emotions throughout the bar.

  “Woo! Fuck, yeah!”

  “No. It was that fuckin’ ref. No.”

  “In your face!”

  They’re the same sounds you’d hear at any sports bars in Fredericksburg after a Houston/Dallas matchup. As usual, half the people here are disappointed, and the other half is fucking exultant.

  But it seems to be going on for a while tonight. As I finish off another pint, I struggle to estimate how long it’s been since the game actually ended.

  “As soon as they got that last touchdown, I knew it was over. No fucking way Houston had time to catch up.”

  Eric’s grinning ear to ear, eyes happily fixed on one of the TV screens showing the post-game show.

  “I knew it was over before it started, but I admire Jessie for keeping her adorable hope alive until the bitter, bitter end.”

  Jess is staring coldly at the screen, which is now showing half the Texans’ offensive lineup sauntering away from the field in shame.

  “I don’t know what kind of crazy stroke of luck befell your team tonight—”

  Hilariously, Jessie interrupts her intense speech by devouring the last wing on her plate with the same intense energy.

  “Don’t act like you expected it, though,” she says after finishing. “That’s like wining the Powerball and being all ‘oh, I knew that would happen.’”

  Jess caps this off with a sarcastic smile. I don’t know why she does that, and I don’t know why it’s so funny, but Eric and I start laughing really fucking hard.

  Jessie tries to hold it in, but she lets herself laugh a little bit—as much as somebody can laugh with a broken heart from watching their team get destroyed.

  The Touchdown crowd is starting to quiet down as the buzz of victory settles into a nice afterglow.

  Even though it’s getting less rowdy in the bar, it’s also getting more crowded, with new patrons appearing out of nowhere.

  Jessie doesn’t seem to care about, or notice, the growing crowd. The beer has me feeling talkative, and I can’t help but ask her about it.

  “Where are all these people coming from, Jess? The game’s over.”

  Jess casually sips her beer, making me wait a few long seconds before she answers.

  “It’s not about the game. It’s about the awesome ambiance, the extensive menu, the five-star rating on Yelp. The rushes keep getting bigger.”

  I give a searching look over the entrance as a new swell of people rush in.

  If I were anyone else, I’d be worried that it might make it harder for me to get another pint if it keeps getting too crowded.

  But a bigger crowd makes me happy. It means that Eric and Jessie’s business is growing and prospering. How can I not be happy about that?

  The sudden appearance of a familiar face out of nowhere puts an end to that line of thinking, however.

  The sight of Dylan heading straight for our table startles me at first—I almost jump out of the booth. But there’s someth
ing about the cool, assured way he carries himself that makes me feel cool and assured.

  Watching Dylan easily make his way through the clumps of football fans in various states of drunkenness, that cool feeling starts getting considerably warmer.

  Nah, that’s just the cheap domestic beer talking…right?

  “Hey!” Eric’s voice peals much too loudly through the air. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Pickle.”

  When Dylan walks those last couple feet to the table and slides casually into the empty spot next to me, I suddenly feel completely sober and energized.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you all. But I was hoping to. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, come on,” Eric counters boozily. “You’re here to congratulate us on the Cowboys kicking ass tonight. You can admit it.”

  “That’s because they faced the Texans and not the Pats. And with all the other bullshit going on, football is not at the front of my mind right now.”

  Dylan’s upset about something, yet that cool, assured vibe he’s putting out is still so strong, I can almost taste it.

  A feverish wave rolls through me as Dylan and I look at each other.

  “How’re you?”

  Ugh, I might not be as sober as I thought.

  “I’m trying to figure this out, Brooke. I think we all do, and that’s why I’m here. I’m glad I found you.”

  Dylan smiles at me. It’s a sweet, friendly smile, and I suddenly feel guilty for how much I was letting him affect me.

  Fuck, I think I’m sobering up for real.

  That’s good, though.

  I smile back at Dylan in the same way. Friendly.

  Because he’s an old friend—that’s all.

  “Figure what out?” Dylan and I both turn to Jessie as soon as she asks the question. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, I’ll second that,” Eric adds.

  “Okay.” Dylan lays his hands down on the table with a slight thud, signaling that shit’s about to get real. “It’s my dad.”

  “What’s going on with your dad?” I hear the hope in my own voice that it’s nothing serious.

  “He’s behind it. Everything.”

  “Behind what?” Eric demands. “And don’t say ‘everything’ again.”