Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

I stop short and hover in the doorway when I see that he’s teaching her how to play guitar on a gorgeous Gibson acoustic.

It’s eerie to watch them like this. Father and daughter in a way I never would have imagined when I was living paycheck to paycheck in New York. He’s holding down the chords on the fret while she strums, and he softly sings “Puff the Magic Dragon” to guide them along.

I stare at them from the open door, mesmerized by the scene. Will she pick up the instrument right away, like the secret daughter in Forever My Girl? I watched that movie between my fingers like a horror film when Olivia picked it out for our monthly Mom RomCom movie night with Allie back in Kentucky.

The answer to that question turns out to be no. O2 quickly grows frustrated when she tries to move on to the next step of holding the fret by herself and she can’t get the first chord progression right.

“I hate this guitar! I’ll never learn how to play it!” she wails.

Those dead-serious, big fat tears that kids cry when they can’t pick up something like magic after one or two tries start rolling down her face. And, of course, she starts to push the expensive Gibson off her lap. We’re still working on her not-breaking-our-things-when-you-get-frustrated skills.

I’m itching to step in at this point, but I hold myself back. This is the not-fun part of parenthood. What happens between all the Kingsbridge Loves Families poster ad campaign moments of school drop-offs, pool parties, and summer concerts on the community lawn.

To Griffin’s credit, he doesn’t yell at O2 about the guitar—just pulls it out of her lap and sets it aside. “Don’t take your frustration out on the instrument, dude. I destroyed at least three guitars on my way to becoming semi-decent—but none of them were Gibsons.”

O2 sniffles. “How long did it take you to learn?”

“Well, I started around sixteen—and I was like, twenty-two maybe before I could play and sing at the same time,” he admits, scratching at his neck. Truth be told, my picking skills still aren’t that great. I do my thing on stage cuz it looks dope, but my number-one guitar talent is finding the right touring and studio musicians to punch up the backing track.”

I haven’t played guitar in years—not since leaving the roadhouse behind.

But I let my presence be known when I step through the door and add, “You can also try patience and church. Pick a song and learn it. Then play it at church. Then pick another song and learn it and play it at church. That’s how I figured out how to play the guitar after Cousin Kiki taught me the basics.”

“This is Sin City. They don’t have churches here,” O2 informs me with the superior authority of an almost six-year-old.

“They have churches everywhere,” I inform her back, laughing. “Las Vegas does have an ungodly reputation, but Sin City is just a nickname.”

Griffin glances at me, then gives O2 a thoughtful look. “I’ll admit, that learn and perform method does work if you’ve got any kind of ego at all—and you’re my kid, so I’m assuming you do. Tell you what, I’ve got a four-month residency scheduled at the Benton, starting in January. We could figure out a song for you to play—something real simple—and you could come on stage and sing it with me.”

“Really?” O2 asks.

“I don’t kid around about performance guarantees—that’s how you get sued. But you have to learn the song top to bottom—vocals too. Something current too. ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ isn’t a good look for me.”

“Oh my goodness, thank you, Dream Dad, thank you!”

O2 throws her arms around his neck. And she spends pretty much the rest of the weekend learning a simple tune by her favorite pop act, sasha X kasha.

And I spend the weekend feeling increasingly alarmed.

This is why I decide to talk to Griffin instead of ignoring him, like I usually do, when he walks into the kitchen that following Monday.

He stops, glances at the empty table. “Where’s O2?”

“It’s actually Labor Day, so no school,” I answer. “Whitney and her wife picked her up about an hour ago to have breakfast at the Kingsbridge Club and get her started on what Merri called her long-overdue formal instruction. If I’d only known she was going to have a golf pro as a sort-of grandma, I would have done my due diligence.”

I chuckle, trying to spark some camaraderie.

But Griffin just shifts awkwardly and glances at the coffee pot.

“Do you want some coffee?” I ask, remembering he’s gotten in the habit of pouring a cup into an insulated AudioNation travel mug before he takes O2 to school. “I could make you something too. Bacon and eggs. Anything you want.”

He glances around, like he’s wondering if he’s fallen into an alternate universe. Which is fair. This is a 180-degree switch from the almost total silent treatment we’ve been giving each other since the night he kicked me out of his room.