My dad, already dressed in khaki pants and a checkered button-down, stares out the door for a second before letting out a little chuckle. “Dee!” he shouts. “The guy who snuck in your room last night is here!”
My dad turns to me and smirks at the way my jaw is hanging on the floor. Then he walks into the kitchen and I rush to the front door.
Joel looks just as stunned as I do. He’s standing on my doorstep—with his bad boy mohawk, his wrinkled day-old shirt, and his tattered jeans—and we’re just staring at each other with wide eyes and no words until my dad shouts, “Are you going to invite him in or are you just going to make him stand out there in the cold?”
I seriously contemplate closing the door and making him stand out in the cold, but instead I grab his hand and yank him inside. My dad appears around the corner a moment later, smirking around a cup of coffee. He takes a sip and asks me, “Are you going to introduce us?”
I cross my arms over my chest, realizing I’m severely underdressed. “Dad, this is Joel,” I say, flicking my fingers in Joel’s direction. My dad’s eyes light up with recognition that makes my stomach fall, and I continue, “Joel, this is my dad.”
“Keith,” my dad says, extending his hand to Joel.
They shake, and afterward, my dad scrunches his nose at his palm.
“Hair gel,” Joel rushes to explain, and I could just die and dissolve into the floor.
My dad chuckles and stares up at Joel’s mohawk. “Right . . . You kids want some breakfast?”
Together? No! Not now, not ever!
“Sure,” Joel says, and he follows my dad into hell’s kitchen.
They eat breakfast together. And lunch. Laughing and sharing stories and becoming best freaking buds. At noon, I’m sitting between them at the dining-room table furiously texting Rowan on my phone.
It’s like they’re BFFs.
Isn’t that good?
ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?
Yes?
NO!!!
. . . I think I’m confused.
I huff and lay my phone on the table, but my dad and Joel barely seem to notice.
“I got it when I was eighteen,” my dad says, pulling his arm out of his shirt and showing Joel his Celtic armband tattoo.
“Badass,” Joel says, and my dad grins.
Joel stands and lifts up his shirt, showing my dad the script stretching up his side. It says “I am the hero of this story” in delicate, curling letters, and I never put much thought into what it means. Now, I want to know when he got it, why he got it, where he got it. I want to trace my fingertips over the letters and feel his marked skin. “I got this when I was twenty-one,” Joel says, letting my dad read the words before lowering his shirt.
“Nice,” my dad says, and I roll my eyes. “When did you get the guitar one?” he asks.
Joel studies the tattoo on his inner forearm. It’s sepia-toned, of the neck of a guitar hidden beneath torn skin. “I got that one when I was nineteen.”
“So that was your first one?”
“Nah,” Joel answers, showing my dad the tiny music note hidden where his middle finger usually rests against his index finger. “I got this one when I was fifteen. Did it myself.”
“How?” my dad asks.
“Razor and pen.”
My dad chuckles. “I bet your mom was thrilled.”
Something flashes across Joel’s expression, something I’m guessing was too quick for anyone but me to catch, but then he smiles.
I bet his mom couldn’t have cared less.
“Are you going to your parents’ for Easter tomorrow?” my dad asks, and I find myself wondering the same thing. Where does Joel go for Easter? Where does he go for Thanksgiving and Christmas? I pick at a cold breadstick left over from the pizza lunch we ordered, waiting for his answer.
He shakes his head. “We’re not close. I’ll probably go to my friend Adam’s. Last year I just ordered Chinese and played video games. It was pretty awesome.”
My dad frowns, mirroring my expression. “Would you want to stay here and have dinner with us?” he asks, not bothering to ask for my approval.
Joel turns toward me like he’s hoping I’ll have the answer, and my dad adds, “It’s usually just Dee and me, but we’d love to have you if you want to stay.”
“Yeah,” I say after it feels like I’ve been silent for too long, “you should stay.”
Joel studies me for a moment, but if he’s trying to figure out how I feel about him spending Easter with us, I’m pretty sure he’ll have to wait until I figure that out first. Ever since my mom left, it’s always been just my dad and me. My insides twist, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the possibility of Joel spending the holiday alone or because of the possibility of him spending it with me and my dad.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and then he thanks my dad for the offer.