Page 113 of Oh, Flutz!

“Settle down, kid. They’d think you’re getting cocky.”

And just like that, I’m sober. “Dad.”

I’m expecting a snarky comment, like,nice to hear from you too, son.Not this time, though.

“Yes,” he says. That’s all.

I stand there with my phone to my ear, a party raging around me, my father on the other end of the line, struck utterly dumb.

This is insane. We’re two full grown men, and we’re here in total silence waiting for the other person to talk first, which is a pipe dream considering I’m sure as hell not going to volunteer, and, having spent the last decade and a half having painful conversations with this man, neither is he.

I’m not going to volunteer.Damn it. Of course I am. “Why are you—”

“Listen, I—”

Cue more awkward silence, and I rub a hand down my face, forcing a laugh. “Look, you’re the one who called, alright?” I try to say it like it isn’t making me miserable.

Dad clears his throat, and I can picture him taking off his glasses and putting them back on. “I know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This whole situation is making my beer-addled brain feel like it’s wringing itself out like a towel rag. I’m barely able to deal with him when I’m not inebriated and we aren’t already fresh off a blowout. What am I supposed to do? Unluckily for me, there’s no manual on how to talk to Robert Young. No,How To Resolve Your Daddy Issues (For Dummies)!

Luckily, as I’m standing there trying to calculate the chances of me saying something less stupid thanwhy do you hate me so much, Dad, he speaks first.

“What time are you coming home?”

Home. My god. Usually the sheer idea of my dad asking me this question, or really anything a normal dad would ask his son, would piss me off so bad I’d be seeing red, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but suddenly I want to cry.

Not just because I have to get him to clarify whether he means the house or just Lake Placid. But because it’s all just sounfair.

Why couldn’t we just be normal? Why couldn’t he be normal? Why couldn’t he have gotten someone else to do that damn survey of the site, or hired a construction company with slightly less faulty heavy machinery? Why couldn’t he have dealt with it better? Why couldn’t I be the kid out partying, with his dad calling and wanting him home?

Then I remember I have to answer. “Tomorrow morning,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray any of what I was just thinking. “Are you guys back yet?”He called. Why did he call?

“Just about. We’re stopped for gas in Keene.” A pause. “I wish I could’ve watched you.”

He says it like he didn’t mean to say it. Like he didn’t mean to let it slip out. He says it almost wistfully, and I swear to god, I have to smear a hand over my mouth to make sure I don’t let out the sound that threatens to rip out of me.

“Me too,” I choke. “Me too, Dad.” And then the question comes out before I can stop it. “Look, I—I know you hate flying, but do you want to come to Nationals? To watch us?”

Fuck. Why did I ask, why did I ask, why did Iexpect—

Silence, for a second, and I think I’ve lost him, but then his voice crackles through the line. “Yeah, Bry. I’ll come.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

KATYA

“Ineed another drink,”Bryan announces suddenly, appearing out of nowhere behind me.

I startle so badly I nearly spill the glass of water I’ve been holding sadly.

“Ebanashka. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

"Sorry.” He says it absentmindedly, and the look on his face only serves to confirm that he’s somewhere else. He moves to my side, putting one hand on my waist as he reaches over to grab the champagne bottle from the ice bucket.

I eye him suspiciously. “Where are you going with that?”

“Dunno.” He lifts a shoulder, looking very mopey as he slides his gaze back up to meet mine.Puppy eyes. “Wanna come?”

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