Dark Wild Night

“Dad.”


He laughs. “You do. Come on now. Keep things light and fun. Your life is nuts right now. First Razor Fish, now you’re writing more? And they’re making your goddamn movie?”

I look up at the skyline. I’ve worked so hard for all of this, but I find myself suddenly wanting to change the subject. “What are you doing tonight?”

I hear the scratch of his shoe on the concrete back porch as he puts out the cigarette and the bang of the screen door as he goes back inside. “I think Ellen is coming over here for dinner.”

Ellen. Dad’s new girlfriend, whom I trust about as far as the distance between my bent elbow and my middle finger. Dad is one of the smartest and best people I know, and deserves someone special. Ellen is a gum-addicted, fake-breasted cocktail waitress at T.G.I. Friday’s.

“Awesome.”

“I can tell you don’t like her.”

I chuckle. “I told you I don’t like her.”

“She’s fun, Boss,” he says. “And she’s got a great rack.”

“Gross. I’m hanging up now. This was one hundred percent unhelpful.”

He laughs. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I shove my phone back into my bag and climb the metal stairs to the loft.

I know what I said is a lie: it wasn’t totally unhelpful. Sometimes Dad’s straight shot of honesty is exactly what I need. It may not be more than a friendship for Oliver, but even if it is, is that the best thing for us?

But almost as soon as I’ve slid the loft door closed, someone bangs on the other side. It’s two short hits with the side of a curled fist: Oliver.

I’m right there, pulling it open while his hand is still returning to his side.

“Hey,” I say.

He’s out of breath and swipes a hand through his hair. “Hey,” he says. “Can I come in for a minute?”

I step aside. “Of course.”

He walks past me into the living room and stares out the wall of windows for a few seconds until he catches his breath. He doesn’t seem to have come here for a sandwich, or to use the bathroom because the one at the store is broken, and the longer he takes to start speaking, the more anxious I become.

Finally, he turns to me. “Are you okay?”

I stare up at him as a blur of images from the past hour flips through my head. Why would he think I wasn’t okay? “Yeah. Why?”

“You just left really abruptly. Like something was wrong.”

I groan inwardly, turning to look out the window. “I just felt like kind of an asshole for saying that thing to Not-Joe about you in college, and—”

“Fuck, Lola, I don’t give a shit if Joe knows about that.”

Shrugging, I tell him, “You seemed annoyed.”

Clasping his hand around the back of his neck, he says, “I don’t want you to think of me as this guy that would hook up with his roommate just to learn how to be with girls.” His big bespectacled eyes look at me softly. “It sounds sketchy.”

I smile. “I didn’t really think of it like that. It’s college. People do things in college.”

“That whole thing happened over a single, very drunken weekend over a decade ago. It wasn’t like”—he winces as he looks for the right words—“like, a nightly thing.”

“It’s okay,” I say quietly, wanting him to know he doesn’t need to explain this to make me feel better. “I don’t need you to—”

“And knowing you’re hearing those things about me from someone else . . .” he cuts in, scratching his neck, “that doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s not like you and I really talk about those kinds of things.”

He doesn’t reply to this, and I quickly add, “I mean, it’s fine. We don’t need to. I just—that’s why I left. Because it felt like I was being sort of intrusive. I don’t want to get into your personal business, Oliver. I totally respect that space.”