I’m the violence in the pouring rain.
I’m a hurricane.
“I love it!” I beam.
“Super hot, babe,” Christian says, pulling some cash out of his wallet.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you your birthday present.” He smirks.
“Chris, no. I have money.” Pierce’s idea of “lunch money” was over a hundred bucks. Plus, I had a couple bucks of my own. God, I really need a job again.
“Keep your sugar daddy money.” He smiles knowingly.
“I hate you,” I say, shoving his shoulder. “But I love you. Thank you.”
Dylan slathers some type of cool ointment over my tender skin and bandages me up.
“Okay, leave this on for six hours. Don’t touch it. I mean it,” he warns, pointing a stern finger. “Once you remove the bandage, wash all the ointment and junk off with a mild soap, like Dove. Keep it moisturized with something that doesn’t have any fragrance. Don’t cover it up again after the six hours. Let it breathe. No swimming or submerging your ink until all the scabs fall off. Use common sense and you’ll be golden.”
“Uh, can you write all that down?” I’m too excited to focus on anything he just said. He laughs and hands me a baggie with instructions and a sample of some ointment to rub on it later. I carefully pull my shirt back over my head, and then we’re off.
After forcing Christian to snap some pictures of my tattoo with my camera and stopping for coffee—my treat—I ask him to drop me off at home so I can wait for my dad. I need to talk to him about Ryan. I’m dreading this conversation, but I know Pierce is right. I need to give my dad a chance to be a dad. And even though Ryan will most likely hate me afterward, it’s the only way he has any hope of making it to thirty years old. He’s only been gone a couple of weeks, but it seems like a lifetime. Everything has changed.
“Good luck with your dad. Text me later, birthday bitch,” he yells out the window.
“See ya.”
When I walk in the door, my house is completely as I left it. Which means Ryan still hasn’t shown his face. I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without seeing him, and when I think about how we’ve drifted apart and how much he’s changed, I feel a pang of sadness. And not just a little guilt.
Every year on my birthday, my pops and Ryan take me to Freemont Street to see the light show. I didn’t exactly expect Ryan to show up like nothing happened, but it hurts not having him here. I pick up my phone to see if he’s sent any more texts—nada.
My dad is late—big shocker—so while I wait, I eat, shower, and look for last minute things to clean. When I run out of things to do, I lie down on the couch and pull up a book on my kindle app. The unmistakable sound of an eighteen-wheeler eventually interrupts my reading, and I run outside. The monsoon is moving in hard and fast. The sky is almost completely black, and the wind is howling.
“Pops!” I squeal, throwing my arms around his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like coffee and chewing tobacco, and I know if he turned around, I’d see the telltale circular imprint in his back pocket where he keeps the aforementioned chew.
“Hey, Hurricane,” he says tiredly, using his nickname for me. When he spots the screen tossed haphazardly against the side of the house, he shoots me a look, but surprisingly, doesn’t ask any questions.
“I have to talk to you about something,” I say as we take our time walking to the door. We aren’t in a rush to get out of the storm. Almost all my favorite memories with my dad take place on nights just like this.
Once we’re inside, he surveys the damage. It’s as clean as I could get it, but we’re still down a coffee table and gained a few extra stains.
“Yeah, I’d say so, sweetheart.” He lifts his hat and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm before tossing the hat onto the counter. “Let me make a pot of coffee first.” He sighs.
“Already took care of it.” My dad doesn’t care if it’s fifteen or one hundred fifteen degrees. He still drinks coffee twenty-four hours a day. I bring him some in his favorite Harley Davidson mug before taking a seat at the table across from him, knotting my fingers together and leaning on my elbows.
“Ryan needs help, Dad,” I start off, subtle as always. “He’s struggling. Now more than ever.” He takes a sip of his drink, not showing any sign that he’s heard what I’ve said. I swallow before I continue. “This weekend, he finally just…exploded. That’s what happened to the door, and, well, everything else,” I say, gesturing around the room.
“Remington.” He sighs. “I think you’re the one who needs help.” His voice is a flat line. It takes a second for that to sink in. I couldn’t be more surprised if he decided to haul off and punch me in the face. It certainly feels the same to me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my eyebrows pinched in confusion.
“Ryan told me everything. I thought this school would be good for you. A new start. But it seems to have backfired.” He sets his mug down and smooths a hand over his short beard, a nervous habit of his that tells me he’s feeling uncomfortable.
Oh my God. It makes sense now. His lack of enthusiasm. His non-reaction to seeing the damage. Ryan got to him first. I feel my blood heating in my veins, simmering with rage.
That son of a bitch.