It’s Andy.
He’s staring down at me, his eyes wide pits, his jaw pulsing in that familiar way.
I slide down the window, warning myself to be calmer than I was during our last fight. I lost my temper then, tired of his sanctimonious crap, and it didn’t end well. But I was a younger man, far quicker to anger than I am now. I hope so, at least.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Andy snaps.
“Long time no see,” I reply.
He grimaces. “Don’t give me that friendly crap. And don’t talk to me like we only spoke yesterday. It’s been years, Aaron. I saw what you did to my daughter.”
I grit my teeth. His phrasing has me wanting to leap from the car, to hammer my fist against the steering wheel, to do something – anything – to let out some of this anger. Apparently, when it comes to Andy, I’m still as on-edge as a man in his early twenties.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” I snarl. “I kissed her. She kissed me back. I didn’t even know she was your daughter at the time. Believe me, I wish she wasn’t. I wish this wasn’t such a cluster fuck.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
I sigh, pushing the car door open. Andy steps back, wincing slightly as he favors one side.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” he grunts. “Just my hip, it’s been giving me trouble. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Do you need surgery?”
If grimacing was an Olympic sport, Andy would get first prize. “What I need is to come home after a grueling ten-hour shift, go to bed, and get some shuteye before I have to go back into work tomorrow. What I don’t need is you hanging around my apartment. Do I need to ask you again? Why are you here, Aaron?”
I stare at my old friend, wondering if I should invent some excuse.
But what can I say?
Then I think about telling him the truth, telling him I drove all this way to see his daughter, and the words die on my lips. I’ll sound insane, like a stalker.
“Maybe I like going for nighttime drives.”
Andy shakes his head. “Don’t give me that weak-ass crap, Aaron. You’re here to see her, aren’t you?”
I groan, lowering my gaze. I feel like a piece of dirt. No matter what, Billie is his daughter.
“Did you expect her to be hanging around outside at…” He checks his watch. “At almost three AM? What is it? You discovered she’s my daughter and now you really want to twist the knife?”
“Andy, I’ve only ever wanted the best for you. You can call me a liar if you want, but shit, man… You could’ve had enough money so your family never wanted for anything. You could’ve had surgery the second you needed it. But you let it all go. And for what? For your pride?”
My voice gets louder, even if I don’t mean for it to.
Andy slashes his hand through the air, his voice even louder than mine. He’s yelling and his face has turned that same shade of red from all those years ago.
“It’s not about my goddamn pride. It’s about not wanting to sell my soul to some record label for a few bucks. We could’ve stayed independent. We could’ve forged our own path.”
He walks right up to me, staring me in the eye. For a second I think he’s going to swing on me.
“You were the best guitarist I’ve ever met,” I snap. “But you haven’t got a head for business. I don’t mean to offend you. But it’s the truth. If we’d done things your way, the band might never have taken off. We’d still be playing those dingy rooms with fifteen people in the audience.”
“At least we’d own the band.”
“Andy, old friend, I’m sorry but… not everyone is your stepdad, okay? Not every rich person is automatically a piece of shit just because they have money.”
“Don’t talk about my fucking stepdad,” Andy roars, so loud a couple of the lights switch on in the apartment building. “And stay the fuck away from my daughter.”
I sigh, already regretting the words. It’s the way I tried to explain it to him before.
His stepdad married his mom after his biological father’s death, and then he used his money to control and manipulate her, forcing Andy to watch as she went from a lively life-loving woman to a paranoid and skittish shell.
Andy told me once, back when we were friends, that that’s why he hates rich people so much. They can do whatever they want and get away with it. But he doesn’t like me throwing it in his face.
I raise my hands. “We don’t have to argue. We can talk like reasonable—”
“Fuck you and fuck being reasonable!”
He spins on his heels, making for the door.
Then he pauses.