Page 35 of Camera Shy

Of course you do. The real question is if he knows her or fucked her. The two words are interchangeable for Dad.

“Why don’t you bring Nora along? I can make a reservation for three.”

Yup, keep twisting the knife. “Nora and I broke up, Dad.”

“When?”

“Last year, at the end of summer.”

He blows out a heavy breath into the phone. “Griffin, I’m sorry. I wish I had known, but you never talk to me.”

“Please don’t call me that,” I mumble.

“Why? It’s your name.”

No, it’s your name and I hate that we share it. Griffin Harvey is a pilot. Finn Harvey is a photographer. Griffin Harvey is a womanizer. Finn Harvey builds women up. I am nothing like my dad. I will never marry a woman, cheat on her for nearly two decades, impregnate two mistresses, and then drag my ex-wife through years of litigation in an attempt to starve her of any alimony. I will not ignore the fact that she’s waiting tables in twelve-hour shifts and can still barely pay the bills, while I’m sipping rum in Fiji and trying to fuck everything in a bikini.

“Hey, I hate to cut this short, but I have to prep the studio for a client that’ll be here soon.” Lies, lies, lies.

“How’s the business going?” Dad asks, clearly desperate to prolong our conversation.

“It’s…going,” I answer honestly. “Could be better.”

“You know if you need a loan—”

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t have to be a loan. If it helps, a gift—”

“Dad, I’m good. Thank you, though.”

He sighs heavily. “I’m proud of you, Finn. It’s not easy staying afloat as a small business owner. If you ever need anything, I’m here.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I mean it, Champ. What good is my money if not to help my son?”

A knot twists in my stomach. Dad traveled a lot when I was growing up, but he made a point to keep his flight schedules strictly domestic when I was in little league. He couldn’t catch every game, but he made it to more than any of the other pilot dads.

He was a great dad.

I just didn’t realize what a shitty husband he was until I left for college and Mom finally felt free enough to leave his sorry ass. For ten years now, I’ve tried to separate the two versions of my dad. My mom tells me not to fight her battles. She’s given me her blessing to have a good relationship with Dad. He’s never treated me poorly.

But I just can’t ignore the kind of man he chose to be. He unapologetically stole the best years of my mom’s life. He tore our family apart.

“Dad, I have to go. I’ll see you on the nineteenth.”

“All right, Son. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Mhmm,” I say right before I hang up. It’s all I can manage without sounding like a dick. I didn’t want to end the phone call with, I’m not.

I pull on some sweatpants and a clean athletic shirt before heading to the kitchen. The smell of coffee fills the halls and the entryway of my ranch-style house.

“Poured you a cup,” Lennox says without looking around. She’s sporting quite the goth look today. Black jeans shorts, fishnet stockings, black tank top, and her hair is jet-black once again.

“Hey, you got rid of the purple?” I ask, pointing to her hair.

“Meh,” she says, shrugging, “I bore easily.”

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