Page 90 of Fire Island
“Yup. Apparently once she comes back from the dead, she’s hard to get rid of.”
I shake my head at Em’s ridiculous sense of humor. “Let’s do this, then.”
I sound far more confident than I am. My own hands have worked up a shake, and I wring them as we make our way to the café. It’s busy. Too busy for an intimate meeting of father and son for the first time. The doorbell jingles, and everyone but Errol, who’s sitting at his usual spot at the counter, stops and stares.
Fucking Christ, the last thing I need is an audience.
I’m about to do a swift about-turn when Em nods toward the counter. Iris is waiting, and she smiles at me, gesturing for us to come out back. Thank god.
Em goes first as I run through my rapid thoughts for the least idiotic thing to say. I don’t trust my words at this point, and I wish Evie was here. Since they’re her thing. And she’s literally my happy place. I have no doubt one glance of those beautiful browns would calm me down.
“Callum.” Ava stands from where she’s sitting at Iris’s dining table.
Em and Iris huddle before making themselves scarce.
“Hey,” I say, but the word is strangled as it wedges past the stone in my throat.
The young guy sitting on the seat beside Ava has his head down. The same shaggy brown hair as mine covers his face. He’s staring at his phone, like nothing interesting is going on. Wearing a black T-shirt and a black jacket, his moody vibe is emanating around the room.
“Reese,” Ava starts, glancing at her—our—son, “will you get off that thing?”
He ignores her.
“Hey, bud.”
He scoffs. “I’m not your bud.”
Now he looks up. It’s like someone spun a goddamn mirror around and I’m catching my own reflection. A few decades ago, but still. He’s the spitting image.
Exactly the way Evie described the guy she ran into in the street the other day.
I take a seat and lean back, crossing my arms.
Since my carbon copy sits across the table from me, I have a fairly good idea of what’s going on in his head. As soon as the thought formulates, I scoff at myself internally.
“What year is she?” I ask.
His head pops up, the phone forgotten. “Who?” His face doesn’t improve—in fact, the frown turns into a scowl.
“Your bike.”
“What bike?”
“The one you’ve been scouring the streets of Bay Shore in.”
Ava’s face turns to surprise laced with annoyance. “I told you to stay off that thing. It’s a damn death trap.”
Reese rolls his eyes at his mother. I suppress the laugh wanting out at his defiance. I shouldn’t laugh. She’s raised him, housed him, and fed him. Kept him alive and thriving for two decades. But that bitter little streak in me centered around her keeping him away lets the chuckle escape as a barely contained smile.
“Just a piece of junk I picked up secondhand. Nothing like what I plan on getting.”
He looks at his mother as he says this, as if this is her punishment for keeping the bike from him.
This boy isn’t a chip off the old block. He’s the exact replica of it.
The attitude. The defiance.
The contempt at anyone trying to tell him what to do...
