I blink and blink again, stunned that his hermit status has equaled obvious productivity, though I don’t know why. He’s a brilliant man who’s been living for his work. “That’s incredible, Dad. I mean, really, really incredible. What is it?”
He reaches in his pocket and produces what looks like a fuse of some sort. “This little baby will charge up with solar energy and then provide power for a fifteen-hundred-square-foot house for twelve hours. The fuses fit into a charging box that I created, with a solar panel on the side. As one fuse turns off and begins to recharge, the next turns on. I make the entire box and fuses for two hundred dollars.”
“How big is the box?”
“Twelve by twelve. A ten-thousand-square-foot house would need only seven, which eliminates the need for the large eyesores that are the current panels.”
“That’s incredible, Dad. I mean, wow. It seems as if it’s life changing—world changing, even. How long have you been working on it?”
“Five years, but since my incident in New York, I’ve done less outside the house and focused more on my work. It’s ready now. The problem is that there’s a lot of people in power who do not want something this cost effective in the market. If I don’t tread carefully, someone will buy my patent simply to bury my work.”
“How do you prevent that from happening?”
“I need an attorney, a good one, that can’t be bought off by the same powers that be that would bury my work. I don’t know who that might be.”
“Jess might,” I suggest. “She’s got money and people helping her manage it. I’m seeing her Friday, so I’ll ask. What does Mom say?”
His jaw transforms from that soft, relaxed state to solid steel. “Mom doesn’t know.”
My brows dive. “What? Why?”
“I don’t want to disappoint her again. Once I have a check in my hand, it’s real. Until then, I could die a Lion’s Den death again.”
In that moment I’m immensely relieved that I didn’t tell him about my failed presentation and foolish performance. The last thing I want to do is convince him such bad luck is an inherited family trait. I’m a grown adult now, and as a daughter, my role is to become a mature person who doesn’t need to be coddled, who now is strong enough to offer my father a ladder when he needs one. But not a crutch. That’s where I had my role twisted and broken.
“That’s not going to happen,” I state. “And we both agree things happen for a reason, anyway. Maybe you were supposed to focus on this project, this happy ending.”
His lips hint at an attempted smile. “Always my happy-ending girl. And yes. Perhaps it is, but it’s not the happy ending I expected.”
“Sometimes those are the best kind,” I say, but in the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder if he believes Mom is cheating. If he plans to leave her, or her him, and he knows. My gut tells me not to ask, not now, and I don’t know why.
“This would certainly show Lion’s Den how wrong they were to pass you by, Dad.”
His response isn’t immediate, but slowly his lips pull and flatten, and the flatness in his eyes burns with something I can’t quite name. “Yes. Yes, it will.”
In that moment I wonder if I’ve been wrong about my father, lost in my own world, unable to fully view his. I wonder if instead of being depressed, he’s been angry, and anger has transformed him in a way I do not quite understand. Nevertheless, if it leads him to a place where he shines, putting on a production, he’s using that anger smartly. The idea pleases me, but there is a scratching at my mind as well that is uncomfortably present the rest of the evening with my father.
Later, much later, when the storm has passed, the night is lighter, and I step outside to the front porch, leaving my father in his man cave, lost in work. I walk toward my Uber that awaits on the other side of the gate, noting that the willow tree is no longer dancing with shadows, but rather in leafy slumber.
Once I’m in the back of the car, my new driver, an older man who appears to prefer the radio in the off position, barely greets me, which is fine by me on all counts. The noise in my head is quite enough.
Not only is my father excluding my mother from his great news, but he’s not traveling with her. I wonder if he believes she’s cheating. My mother underestimates him. His brilliance is not just evident in a lab. He sees things. He understands things. He observes and learns.
He was also different tonight. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. For the first time in my life, I think my father has secrets.
Chapter Twenty-One
I arrive home to the blast of hip-hop from the bookstore, a familiar problem when Ben, the cleaning guy, spends half the night destroying my sleep. I’ve fought with him. I’ve complained with the owners of the building, but they argue he’s affordable, just like my rent, which they claim to be well below the citywide average.
Pausing at the bottom of the stairs leading to my loft, I am torn between the two choices of arguing with Ben or just heading on upstairs. Of course, today has gone about as well as me in high heels walking down a street, complete with ankle twists and face flops. Ben is my age, decent looking, but not a decent guy at all. The last time I confronted Ben, he stood there, in his overalls, a dip in his mouth, cowboy hat on his head, and told me my ploy to date him by being a bitch wasn’t working.
I decide heading on upstairs is the smart move.
But then again, today I am not invisible. Maybe he will hear me when I complain this time.
I march to the bookstore door, pull it open, and don’t have to go far. I all but run into Ben, who is standing on the other side with a spray bottle in his hand. “Whoa there, little lady,” he drawls, backing up a few steps to allow me room to breathe and tipping his cowboy hat back a bit. The idea that he’s wearing it while in the store at night, alone, is a little weird anyway. “The store is closed,” he adds.
“But the dance club is not, apparently,” I murmur beneath the volume of the music that is, ironically, “Cold Heart” all over again. I used to like that song. Can someone please turn it off, though? Please.
I reach in my bag and produce my earbuds. “I have a gift for you.” I step closer to him again and offer him the earbuds. “The music plays right in your ears and not in mine.”
He glances at them and then at me. “I don’t like things in my ears.”
“I don’t like your music in my loft while I’m trying to sleep.”
“No way it comes through the ceiling,” he says, as if we have not had this conversation before now.
“Have you tried earbuds?”
“Never.”
“They’re comfortable and expensive, and they’re my gift to you.”
He smirks, giving me a dubious look. “You aren’t too good at flirting, are you?”
My cheeks heat red. “I’m not flirting.”
“Okay,” he says. “Can you step aside so I can finish cleaning the glass on the door while you’re not flirting with me?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m not flirting with you.”
“Because everyone offers some guy downstairs a hundred-dollar pair of earbuds?”
“I’m desperate for quiet.”
He smirks, and I can almost hear his thoughts. Desperate all right.
“Okay,” he says.
And just like that, I’m done. I could say more. I could push back. I could defend my honor, so to speak, but to what end? Another one of his snarky remarks? The landlord has not listened to my concerns; therefore Ben feels untouchable. More so, he seems to enjoy taunting me, and if that’s true, I’ve likely only fueled his tank with my visit.
There is no solution to this problem that doesn’t include me moving.
Without another word, I rotate on my heels and exit the bookstore. When the door shuts between me and Ben, the air in my lungs is thinner.
Once I’m in my apartment, I deal with Ben as I usually deal with Ben. I turn on my own music, a mix of yesterday’s and today’s tunes. I shower, hoping to wash away the new me and find the old version, the one that used to feel lost and alone. Turns out, being seen kind of sucks. So does being ignored, I think, now dressed in my long johns and sitting on the bed. My father knows this. That’s why his efforts to be ignored were all about being seen again, but on his terms.