Page 1 of Easton

Ten Years Earlier…

Iglance over at my best friend, Claire, and for the first time since we embarked on this walk through our neighborhood to go down to the local park—something we do almost every evening when the sun is setting—she looks sad.

We were laughing just moments ago, but the vibe has definitely shifted.

I know why. It’s due to the elephant in the room we’ve yet to discuss—her dad.

Last night, Barnes Weller made his annual pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Phoenix—in his private jet, of course—to take his only child out to dinner for her seventeenth birthday. Claire hasn’t said anything about where they went or what they did, just that she’s tired today since she got in really late last night.

Nudging her arm with my elbow, I ask, “Are you okay?”

Staring straight ahead to the park we just reached, she nods once. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

We start down a trail, and she looks over and smiles. But that smile doesn’t reach her pretty hazel eyes.

Softly, I say, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She knows I’m well-aware her sudden change in mood has todo with her annoying dad.

Sighing, Claire kicks away a dried-up chunk of desert foliage that’s in our path.

After a few seconds, she says, “There’s not too much to discuss, Easton. Dad came in like his usual whirlwind self, picked me up in some stupid stretch limo, and then rushed us back to the airport. We flew up to Las Vegas in his jet, had dinner at a fancy restaurant, and then he brought me back. That’s it. End of story.”

I don’t ask for details.

I know it hurts her that she only sees her father once a year, on her birthday. They text and talk on the phone here and there other times, but that’s not the same, and it’s not even all that often.

Barnes claims he’s busy, busy, busy—his words to her, not mine—running his multimillion-dollar aeronautics company.

He started that venture after he divorced Claire’s mom.

And then it really took off, no pun intended.

The long and short of it is that business is his real baby, not his daughter.

I think Claire knows that in her heart, which totally sucks.

I’ve never met the dick, but I don’t like him for that reason alone. I hate seeing my friend sad.

And sad is what he always seems to make her.

We’re both quiet as we round a curve in the trail. Up ahead is a huge saguaro cactus with a funny bend in one of its arms that makes it resemble a person waving. A long time ago, we named him Stan.

There’s a small picnic table next to the cactus that looks like it’s been there forever and probably has. It was once dark wood, I’m sure. But it’s been sun bleached to hell and back and is now gray.

Jerking my chin to the table, I ask Claire, “Do you want to take a break and sit next to Stan for a while?”

We sometimes do this, so it’s not out of the ordinary.

“Sure,” she replies.

We sit across from each other, under the watchful eye of Stan.

Claire’s long hair has been up in a high ponytail held by some elastic band thingy—hell, I don’t know what they’re called—but she’s now sliding it off and fluffing out her chestnut-brown locks, making the reddish highlights much more obvious in the sun.

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