It was nearly the end of October, which meant midsemester grades would be coming out. Richard warned Trev that if he was failing, he’d lose his cell phone.
He had always believed you taught your kids your values, then trusted them. When treated with respect, people were more likely to push themselves to meet expectations, he’d been sure. Worked for employees, should work for kids, right?
The day he searched his son’s bedroom was a low. The very necessity made him admit that Trevor was in real trouble. That, as a parent, he was in real trouble.
He worked quickly, efficiently, trying not to let himself think too much about the way he was violating Trev’s privacy. Drawers first—underwear and socks, shirts, jeans. Nothing untoward. Closet—mostly unused sports equipment and shoes in a jumble on the carpeted floor, a few jackets carelessly hung, unpacked boxes on the shelf. Richard lifted those down, one by one, but found them still taped shut and identified in bold black marker—Trev’s Summer Clothes. Trev’s Ski Parka, Quilted Pants Etc. Trev’s Books. And so on. He put them all back where they’d been. Moved on to the desk.
There he found precious few signs that school assignments were being completed, but a few returned quizzes and tests that gave him hope. Apparently Trevor had been advanced enough in school that the routine work was a gimme for him. Maybe enough to save him with passing grades?
It was a sad day when that was all he could hope for.
Actually, that wasn’t the only positive. He also failed to find any drugs. So the pot he’d smelled probably hadn’t been Trevor’s. He didn’t find any cigarettes, either. Or even matches or lighter. Maybe Trev hadn’t gotten as stupid as he’d feared.
He did find a couple of magazines featuring naked women in lewd poses, but those weren’t any surprise. What teenage boy didn’t have some under his mattress?
Once he was sure Trevor’s room looked the same as when he’d entered it, Richard went downstairs to his home office and refuge. He sat behind his desk to brood. His mouth curved wryly as he remembered those long-ago days when he, too, was a teenager and unable to think about much besides girls and sex. His curiosity had raged from the time he was maybe eleven or twelve. Mom wouldn’t have touched the topic with a ten-foot pole, but Dad had sat him down for a few awkward conversations that were less than informative. Mostly he’d tried to drive home a singular point—be very careful not to get a girl pregnant. Richard grunted. Dad must have felt as much of a failure when Lexa turned up pregnant and Richard had to give up college to marry her as he did now, unable to understand or reach his own kid.
His smile died as he wondered whether Trevor was actually sleeping with those ever-present girls. Another thing Richard hadn’t found, come to think of it, was condoms. Huh. How would Trevor react if his father presented him with the gift of a box of them? Or would that seem too much like a green light to go crazy sexually, so long as he wore the condoms?
Another question to which he had no answer. He could imagine Trevor’s reaction if his father tried to sit him down for a conversation about safe sex.
Did Molly Callahan know her daughter was no longer seeing Trev? If so, she no doubt felt profound relief. Or had she ever known Caitlyn was seeing Trev? It wasn’t as if kids dated the way they once had.
He grunted again. Yeah, of course she’d known. Maybe she wasn’t a cast-iron bitch; maybe she’d seen his son as a threat to her daughter. Richard knew how he’d feel if Bree were seeing a guy with Trevor’s behavioral issues. Maybe Ms. Callahan had some excuse for her hostility.
A part of him wished he knew for sure. He was uncomfortable to realize she’d surfaced in his thoughts not because she was Caitlyn’s mother, but because he had been thinking about sex. Something he hadn’t had in way too long. Hadn’t even especially wanted, except in an easy-to-dismiss way when a woman momentarily caught his eye. Casual sex had gotten to be less satisfying at his age, and after the disaster that was his marriage he’d never been sure he was willing to go that route again. Trust once decimated was difficult to resurrect. Most women would want to start a family, too. Been there, done that, and less than satisfactorily. He couldn’t see himself starting all over. So he’d found himself dating less and less often, with the result that opportunities to take a woman to bed came rarely.
I’m thirty-seven years old, and I’ve consigned myself to middle age. I didn’t even notice it happening.
Being a full-time father to Trevor seemed to be hastening the process.
But a picture rose in Richard’s mind’s eye again of Molly Callahan, pushing that cart out of the grocery store. She’d looked ten years younger in jeans and a snug sweater, hair in a ponytail. He could close his eyes and see her. The way the jeans had fit over her long legs and firm, full ass, the sweater over breasts that would be more than handfuls even for a man with big hands. The pink painted on her cheeks by chagrin, the shame and vulnerability in her eyes when she’d called after him to apologize, if obliquely, for her rudeness.