Page 62 of Down & Dirty

Relief ripped through me;next time. She was already thinking ahead. I sighed, scraping my hand down my face.

Cory: Next time we will. No one gets us, unless we say so.

Sky: We say who. We say when. We say how much! (And if you don’t get that movie reference, the wedding is off)

I let out a laugh. This woman thought she could out movie-quote me? She had so much to learn.

Cory: That’s like a $200 Jeopardy question at best.

Sky: say it

Cory: you’re not going to make me, are you?

Sky: SAY IT

Cory: Pretty Woman.

Sky: You Googled it

Cory: Whatever you say. Next dinner and a movie we’re watching it and you can’t tell me to stop when I recite it line by line

Sky: Gross

I blamed it on all the nights spent on the road. One shitty hotel after another in the early days and nothing to do to kill the time between races but watch movies. The selection was rarely very expansive and I’d learned to appreciate the art of rewatching the classics. I considered it an education in film theory. I was probably ready to be the next great film critic and just didn’t know it.

Dad: You see Harvey Stinson at that premiere?

It figured that my father would see me in the press and ask about one of my old cronies first chance he got. No mention of the stunner on my arm. Typical. Harvey had been an alpine sports nut from the next town over in Maine. He’d taught half the hot shots making waves these days which way was up. But it had been years since he’d attended an event like the premier last night.

Cory: Nah. He’s still hiding in his cabin in Tahoe.

Dad: Can’t blame him. Doesn’t sound too shabby.

Cory: Not at all. How’s the homestead?

Dad: Your brother is making me put in a new furnace.

Cory: Because Mack understands math dad. It’s thirty years old.

Dad: Still works.

I shook my head with a laugh. My father would have fought Mack on replacing that, even if it had died in the middle of February and the temps were barely hitting the single digits. He’d say that was what the wood stove was for, ignoring the fact that he was nearly seventy years old and didn’t need to be hauling wood.

Dad: You coming home for football and bird?

That’s what he’d always called it. Football and bird. The rest of the fanfare clearly irrelevant in the face of his two favorite elements.

Cory: Yeah. Fly in Tuesday night.

Dad: Portland or Logan?

Cory: Logan.

Dad: Want me to come get you?

Cory: Nah, it’s late I’ll get a car.

Dad: Right.

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