Page 84 of Lucky Strike

“I could see your tongue, Dad!” Liam wrinkles his nose in disgust. “You licked her like you were Bacon or somethin’! Yuck!”

Snorting, I cover my mouth. I hope Bacon isn’t really licking anybody like that.

Lucky grins. “Sorry. I guess I really like Bria.”

“But she’s my Bria,” he says, his horror giving way to something that looks like confused sadness.

“Hey, honey.” Bending down, I pull him closer to me. Bacon jumps in, licking my cheek—I guess he does like to lick—but Lucky pulls him away. “Nobody belongs to anybody, okay? We all belong to ourselves. But sometimes it’s nice to share kisses and hugs with people we care about. Your dad and I care about each other a lot.”

“Do you care about me a lot?”

“Yes! I love you.” It’s the first time I’ve said it to him, but I realize as I tug him into a hug that it’s true. Regardless of what happens between Lucky and me, this kid is in my heart.

“Okay.” He hugs me back, seeming somewhat mollified. “But no kissing.

22.Lucky

Now

Dad calls me the morning after he and Mom get back to Boston. I would’ve preferred he take a day or two to rest, but that’s not how he rolls.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Con. How you doin’?”

“Great. Howyoudoin’?”

“Great, all things considered. Listen, what’s on your agenda today?” he asks. “You got any time for your old man?”

“Always. Just let me move a few things around.” I glance over the calendar on my iPad. “You want me to come by?”

“That would be good.”

A few hours later, I pull up to my childhood home in Back Bay. It’s one of my favorite places in the city, in the world, even. These tree-lined streets are packed with memories … snowball fights with neighborhood kids … an awkward first kiss with Malia Carson on her stoop a couple doors down … a brief skateboarding stint the summer of ninth grade that ended in a busted lip and stitches when I tried to take on the stairs in front of our house. I still have a scar.

Uncle Keegan answers the door, giving me a quick hug.

“Hey, Con. They’re up in the office.”

Mom must be home, too. Jogging up to the second floor, I find my father in his study. As a kid, I loved hiding out in here whenever I could, poring over his books, poking around the cool stuff he brought back from his travels. An enormous map stretches across the wall behind his desk, little red pins documenting all of the places he’s been. He grins, rising from the couch by the window. “Hiya, Con.”

“Hey, Dad.” Crossing the room in just three strides, I envelop him in my arms. We’ve been the same height since I turned eighteen, but he’s thinner now than he used to be.

“There’s my boy,” another voice says. But it’s not my mother’s.

I turn in surprise to find my grandfather, Conlan Sr., rising from the Chesterfield armchair in the corner. “Grampa! What’re you doin’ here?” We meet halfway, embracing tightly. I’ve always been pretty close to my grandparents, but they’ve been traveling the world lately, marking things off ‘the ol’ bucket list’. “I thought you and Gran were spending the summer in Europe.”

“Ah, well—we are, yeah.” He shrugs, a smile creeping over his wrinkled face. He and my father look so much alike, it’s alarming. “But something came up, so we came back home for a bit.”

“Everything’s okay, though?” I prod, clasping his shoulder.

“Everything’s grand.” His green eyes twinkle from behind his spectacles, and I wonder what he’s up to. Maybe he and Gran came back for my father’s birthday.

“Good, good.” I turn to Dad. “How’re you feeling?”

“I wish everybody would stop asking me that,” he gripes, passive-aggressively smacking my back. “I’m great! Better than ever.”

“You sound just like your mother with that,” Grampa says with a snort.

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