twenty-four
advice: recommendation regarding
a decision or course of conduct
—www.merriam-webster.com
You should … you know. Go for her.
Those seven words, combined with the completely un-
readable look on Grace’s face as she said them, was on repeat all night long. And every time I process that stupid conversation, I get more irritated. What makes her think I need her permission? And what is she doing? Rubbing things in my face? It almost feels like she’s just throwing shit at the fan to watch it fly because she doesn’t want to deal with her own crap.
I blink open my eyes wider, trying to wake up as I gulp coffee on my way to work. I’m not used to losing sleep, period. And having my eyes feel like they’re recovering from an acid wash doesn’t endear Grace to me further.
I rush up the stairs and enter the office at the same time as Mr. Parker.
His voice booms, “Morning, Ford. Walk with me.”
“Yes sir.” My left eye twitches as I follow him like a prisoner to the guillotine, my mind racing. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, we walk down the hall silently, which is more ominous to me than the eerie calm before a storm.
He opens his office door, makes two giant strides toward his desk, plops down, and motions for me to take a seat.
I pull back the leather chair and sit on the edge, ready to bolt.
He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, which can’t be true. He’s still up to his eyeballs in that Thompson case. “How do you think the summer is going?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“You keeping the guys away from my little girl?”
“Doing my best, sir.” Forget the fact that I’m burning up mad and not planning on talking to Grace for a few days at least.
He sits up straight. “Is that good enough?”
“I think so. She’s not dating anyone.”
He puts a fist down gently on the desk. “That works.” Then he looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re a pretty smooth guy. I hear you have a side project going.”
What is he talking about? Nothing’s happened with Grace. Brianna? I’m kerflummoxed, so I play it safe and wait for him to keep talking.
“Hollingsworth?”
Worried about Hien’s help blowing up, I scoot to the very edge of the seat. “Is that a problem, sir?”
He laughs. “What Hollingsworth does on his time is his business. He’s got a long way to make senior partner, and one pro bono isn’t going to change that. Just make sure when you’re here that you’re working on the things you’ve been asked to do. Anything that belongs after hours belongs after hours. Are we square on that, son?”
Doing my best to keep a poker face, I say, “Yes sir. Is that all?”
He stands up, smoothly guiding me to the door with his body cues. “That’s all.”
I exit his office fuming, but remind myself he’s helped a lot of people. A lot of my people.
Engine parts are scattered in neat piles across our garage floor. Everything has an order to it. There’s a reason for the way it’s laid out—it makes it easier when Dad needs that part later. His methodical approach to rebuilding engines extends into everyndsit. Theday life. He doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, I listen. The kickass thing about my dad is that his words match his actions.
He’s rehabbing an old Jag. V12 engine, 575 horsepower. A type-E Roadster convertible. Sleek lines. The kind of car that gives every red-blooded teenage guy a hard-on. The car is sick. In the best way.
Dad holds out his hand; I pass him a socket wrench. He leans back over the engine, finagling his hands in tight spaces because he’s a pro. Someday, I want to know engines as well as my dad. There’s something about being able to fix something with your own hands, a feeling of complete satisfaction.
Mr. Parker was a total douche this morning. The conversation with Grace last night, the way she was so upset. And the words “carried away” are etched in my brain as sure as the memory of Kahuna Pete carrying her limp body onto the beach. It’s hard to know what she meant by all that. How much she’s not saying. Yeah, her old man can certainly let people have it in court. Every word is calculated to his advantage, building his case. And then there was that morning in his office after Grace’s accident, when he had fun playing cat and mouse. Testing me. Is that what’s she’s talking about? Does he push her into verbal corners? Or is it more? He can be a hardass, but he’s also done a lot of good for a lot of people.
Sometimes I don’t understand what Grace does or says. She doesn’t want to date, but we have all these little moments where I think she wants more or she seems jealous. Then there’s the whole Brittany/Brianna thing. She was all worked up, like she was itching for a fight. Then she told me to date Brianna? I don’t get it.
“Dad?” I ask. “How’d you know Ma was the one?”
Dad pops up from the car, knocking his head on the hood. He flinches and grabs the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “What’s that?”
I shake hair out of my eyes. “You know. How do you know when to make the move to date someone?”
He steps back and sits on a stool, grinning. “Is it Grace?”
Frustrated, I shake my head no.
He gets this concerned look. “What happened, son?”
His “son” reminds me of Mr. Parker’s “son,” and that how someone says a word can make all the difference. I walk over to his toolbox and start messing with a socket wrench, winding it around.
He says, “Did you two fight last night?”
I say, “Kind of. But that’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
I hesitate before I say it out loud. To Dad. Admit rejection. End it fast. “She doesn’t want me. She’s into surfing. That’s it.”
Dad says, “Well, maybe she needs time.”
Nope. He doesn’t get it. Shit. I hate saying it. “Dad, I prettӀDds y much asked her out at the beginning of the summer and she shot me down. Grace and I are nothing more than good friends. Really.” Flashes of the moments when Grace and I were doing something together and I felt sparks drive me crazy. Like the time at the Point when I swear she was going to kiss me. But that’s crazy wishful thinking. With Grace, I feel like I doubt everything. I don’t have any gut instincts anymore and I’m sick to my stomach. Angry. I need to burn off some energy.
He grabs a rag and scrubs at grease on his arms. “Then who’s the girl?”
“Brianna from work.”
“The one you took surfing?”
I grin. She was so clueless and fun. It’s one of the first times in a while where I hung out at the beach without worrying about saying the wrong thing to Grace or worrying about some tool hitting on her. The beach just isn’t as stellar this summer. It’s like Grace and her dad have sucked a lot of the fun out of it. “Yeah.”
He smiles. “She likes you, huh?”
I start feeling a little better. “She asked me out too.”
“You like her?”
After a split second, I say, “Yeah. I think so.”
Dad throws the towel at me. I dodge, blocking it with my arm. He grins and says, “Then go for it.”
I nod. “Yeah. I think I will.”
But I can’t get Grace out of my head. Our conversation last night. Her vague explanations. It nags at me, like my little cousin Carlos who won’t quit pulling on your pants until he gets what he wants.
I ask Dad, “What do you do when somebody seems like they’re in trouble? Kind of serious … but you don’t know what it is.”
Dad angles his body under the hood and grunts. Then
he says, “Well, I don’t see there’s much you can do to help someone if you don’t know what kind of help they need.” Then he pops out from under the hood, sets down the wrench, and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Son, you’ll run across situations in life where you don’t know all the angles. That’s when you need to trust your gut and read between the lines.”
Then he gives me the Dad-pat-on-the-shoulder move. One of those I imparted wisdom son looks with a whack on the shoulder to show he cares. Which is great … ’cause he does. But what do you do when you don’t know what lines to read between?