My dad sighs. “Shut the door, Reyn, it’s not a goddamn air conditioner.”
A heartbeat later, I ease the door shut and start making the coffee.
“You had a good game last night,” he says, suddenly.
“You were there?” He wasn’t out front with the other parents when we walked out of the locker rooms.
“For the first three quarters.” He elaborates, opening another cupboard for coffee cups. “I had to leave early for a date, but you guys had a solid lead by then.”
Ah, the date. The one I assume is upstairs sleeping off the bottle of wine and a night of gymnastics with my father.
“We had a few fumbles back on defense, but nothing we can’t work out. A few of the guys need to work on their cardio,” I say, rambling. I have no idea what to say to this man. We don’t have a relationship. My mother is gone. There’s a strange chick upstairs. I rake a hand through my hair.
He walks around me to set down three mugs, eyes sliding to Tammy’s purse. There’s a stretch of tense silence before he mutters, “Christ. Put it back.” His voice sounds even more tired than he looks.
I give him my most convincing innocent look. “Put what back?”
He narrows his eyes. “Whatever you took from the poor girl’s purse. Don’t play with me, Reyn. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit this morning.”
Yeah, I stopped being able to pull one over on my dad in about fifth grade.
I roll my eyes, pulling the fifty from my pocket and flinging it toward the purse. “Well since I don’t have any money and you don’t seem interested in the boring parts of being a parent like—oh, say, grocery shopping—does that mean my new mommy upstairs is going to find some breakfast?”
His nostrils flare angrily, but my dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he stalks out of the kitchen and returns with his own wallet, plucking a credit card from it. “You know, you could try asking some time.”
I take the credit card, feeling almost bored by it. Where’s the thrill in asking? Where’s the risk? Where’s the satisfaction from getting away with it, taking it home, stashing it away? “Wasn’t aware I needed to ask for food, my bad.”
“You’re eighteen, not eight.”
I’ve also spent three years having every meal—as awful as they were—provided to me. The guys at school act like the lunch is some cruel form of institutional punishment, but the shit we ate at Mountain Point makes Preston lunch food look like gourmet dining. So, yeah. I’m not picky. I’m also fucking clueless where cooking is concerned.
“That card has a limit, Reyn. Essentials only,” my dad continues. “There’s a grocery delivery service, so order what you want on my account.”
Thankfully the sounds of coffee brewing comes to a stop, and I have something to do with my hands besides pull out my own hair.
“Listen,” he says as I start toward the hall, mug in hand, “I’ll be gone for a few days this week. Conference in New Orleans. The maid comes on Tuesday. I told her to change your sheets.”
I swallow the black, bitter coffee. “Got it.”
He holds up the two cups and gives me a tight smile. “Guess I should take these up to Tammy.”
Ah, Tammy. I roll the name around my brain a few times. Doesn’t feel like the name of my new step-mommy. I won’t get attached.
We go up the stairs, one after the other. Him back to Tammy. Me, back…alone. At the top of the staircase he pauses and says, “I expect you to be on good behavior while I’m gone. Leaving you alone right now isn’t ideal but,” his eyes dart to his bedroom door, “I have a life to live, and work to do, despite your return. No drugs. No stealing. No illegal behavior. Is that clear?”
I hold his eye for a long beat, wanting to tell him to fuck off, but I swallow it back and tell him what he wants to hear, “Crystal.”
7
Vandy
I’m already in the massage chair, feet soaking in hot water, when Sydney strolls into the nail salon. Her dark hair is twisted in a messy bun, like she didn’t get a chance to brush it. Sunglasses cover her eyes and she carries a cup from The Nerd—The Northridge Diner—in her hand. She walks over to the wall and picks out a bottle of polish before climbing into the seat next to mine. It’s only then that she pushes the glasses up and I see her red, exhausted eyes.
“Wow, late night?” I ask.
She programs the massage controller and leans back into the padded seat. “Be glad you aren’t into the party scene, V.”
I take a moment to chew on my lip before asking, “Why?” I already know this is going to be a thinly-veiled humblebrag, but maybe there’s something there. Something that’s so dreadful that my night at home, all alone, will seem less pathetic and lame.